


The Lesser of Two Malfoys

by SerenaSnape88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Sexual Tension, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenaSnape88/pseuds/SerenaSnape88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years post-war, the Ministry has passed the Preservation of Magic Act, which includes a new marriage law. Hermione's twenty-second birthday is weeks away, by which time she must be engaged to a pureblood or be compelled by law to accept the first eligible pureblood who requests her.</p>
<p>This relationship is a slow build. I'm 16 chapters in and there's still nothing even approaching sex. This is the part where I drop a platitude about patience and anticipation and whatnot.</p>
<p>Heavy on the dialogue, because I like dialogue.</p>
<p>Originally posted on FanFiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Conversation

Heart pounding and breaths coming fast, Hermione Granger ducked behind a bookcase and peered cautiously around the corner. Seeing her pursuer, she quickly retreated in the opposite direction, weaving her way through her fellow patrons of Flourish and Blott's. At that moment, she did not care that her darting behind bookshelves and running as low to the ground as she could manage was earning her several puzzled glances and even a few stares. At that moment, all she cared about was making it to the front door without being seen by Draco Malfoy.

She did her best to make her way to the front of the shop while simultaneously avoiding the areas near where she had last spotted him. She made use of bookshelves, tall table displays, and a gaggle of housewives hovering around Rita Skeeter's newest biography, all imperfect disguises, but the best she could do. At last, she found herself crouching behind the display nearest the door. Looking underneath the table for the telltale shine of his appallingly expensive shoes, Hermione recognized his feet and peeked around the side of the display. His profile was to her, and he appeared to be asking after her to a stranger who, with a look of annoyance, pointed to the back of the store. Draco's eyes followed the stranger's hand, and Hermione bolted out the door while he wasn't looking.

Immediately after her first breath of fresh air, she collided with a passerby. "Oh, sorry—" she began, not intending to stop for a proper apology, and then she looked up and recognized into whom she had most indelicately crashed.

"Well, well, well," Lucius Malfoy purred, "what have we here?"

Under normal circumstances, Hermione was perfectly capable of appreciating and even enjoying irony. She was not, however, under those circumstances at present. She closed her eyes briefly, letting escape a frustrated sigh, and said, "Please, Mister Malfoy, _not now_."

"Ah, ah, ah," he tutted, gently but effectively blocking her escape by placing his arm in her way. "Come now, Miss Granger, where are your manners?"

"I must have dropped them when I was fighting for my virtue," she answered testily as she adjusted her blouse, which was hanging crookedly on her shoulders, and tossed a strand of hair out of her face. Her eyes were bright with irritation at having her escape delayed, and at the all-too-recent memory of being accosted in the bookstore.

"Ah," he replied, a charming yet patronizing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "An avid admirer? Tell me, Miss Granger, whose attentions are you so desperately fleeing?"

"Your son's, as a matter of fact," Hermione answered, completely out of patience. "He clearly didn't hear the word 'no' enough as a child, something for which I likely have _you_ to thank!"

"Yes," Lucius said, nodding gravely. "The stubbornness he comes by naturally, but he is undeniably incorrigible, and I regret that it is very much my fault."

"Somehow I doubt your sincerity," was Hermione's retort, and she leveled him a scathing look. "Now, if you please, I must be going. He'll be coming out that door any moment—"

And, as though summoned by their discussion of him, Draco stepped onto the pavement.

" _Shit!_ " Hermione whispered, darting behind the nearest available object large enough to conceal her, which happened to be Lucius, and grabbed fistfuls of his cape. " _Please_ ," she breathed, not above begging, " _hide me!_ "

There was a pause, and Lucius drawled his son's name. "Draco."

Hermione gasped silently and tightened her grip on his robes.

"Father," Draco replied, sounding somewhat surprised to see him.

Hermione held her breath, certain that she was about to be revealed.

"What brings you here?" Lucius asked.

"I'm meeting Blaise," Draco easily lied, "but I was a bit early. Just killing time."

"Killing time," his father slowly repeated, the condescension in his voice too evident to be overlooked by even the simplest mind. "It has always bemused me, Draco, how easily idleness comes to you. Do find some useful employment when Mister Zabini joins you, hmm?"

And then he Disapparated, and as Hermione was clutching onto his robes for dear life, so did she.

 

When Hermione met solid ground again, gasping and clutching her side, she had no attention to spare for her surroundings, and it did not occur to her to inquire after them. "Does that _ever_ get easier?" she managed to wheeze.

"You grow accustomed to it," Lucius replied. "But it never becomes pleasant." He began to walk at a leisurely pace down the lane onto which they had Apparated, and although he found it curious, he did not question it when she fell into step beside him.

Many minutes were spent in slightly uncomfortable silence, and Hermione had not the foresight to see that what she said next would serve only to heighten the awkwardness of the situation. "I was sorry to hear about your divorce."

Lucius took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled slowly through his nose. Narcissa had left him nearly a year ago, but the divorce was only one month old. It had been, at first, rather tricky to accomplish, but then the Preservation of Magic Act had been passed, and one of its clauses stipulated that purebloods marry outside their group, and vice-versa, to ensure that the Wizarding race would continue to grow. Narcissa could no longer bear children, but the Ministry was almost too keen to reintroduce Lucius into the pool of eligible pureblood bachelors. "Yes," he began. "That alone might have been bearable, but the Ministry has since been urging me to select another wife."

"That's funny," Hermione replied in a tone that suggested she found not one single thing humorous about her situation, "the Ministry has apparently been urging all the purebloods to select _me_."

This piqued Lucius' interest, and he turned his head to look at her with one eyebrow raised. "You have suitors apart from my son?"

"I do," she affirmed, slightly affronted by the surprise in his voice. "Several. Draco is without a doubt the most persistent, but Ronald Weasley is not far behind."

"Ah, young Mister Weasley," Lucius said, smiling in amusement. "I'm sure his courtship is most refined." His sarcasm was subtle, but detectable.

"Mostly it consists of him turning up uninvited, being socially awkward, and looking confused when I remind him – repeatedly – that I am not his girlfriend."

Lucius laughed quietly to himself, and Hermione was surprised to find it a pleasant sound.

She looked up from her reverie to discover that they had approached Malfoy Manor, and she ceased walking with a startled "Oh!" Then, at the question in his eyes, she said, "I hadn't realized where we were."

"I would have informed you, but you didn't ask."

Hermione was silent.

"I trust that you can Apparate on your own?"

She shot her gaze to him and frowned, more than a little miffed that he willfully underestimated her abilities. "Of course I can."

He chose to ignore the fact that he had offended her, but granted her a shallow bow. "Then I will bid you good day."

With her brow still slightly furrowed, she nodded in return and said, "Thank you for... um... well, for hiding me from Draco." She chuckled a little awkwardly.

He barely tipped his chin in acknowledgement, turned on his heel, and continued on to his house.


	2. Coffee With Harry

A few days later, Hermione was having coffee with Harry outside a Muggle café less than a block from the Hog's Head. It had grown uncharacteristically warm throughout the day, so Hermione had discarded her cardigan and draped it across the back of her chair, inviting what was sure to become an unattractive tan line in the shape of her tank top across her shoulders.

Harry did not even attempt to hide his amusement as Hermione related how doggedly Draco had pursued her and how frantically she had dodged him throughout the bookstore.

"It's not funny!" she protested, but even as she said so, she returned his laughter. "That boy has made himself so much more than a nuisance." She sipped her coffee.

"Boy?" Harry repeated. "We're four years out of school; surely he should be called a man."

Hermione's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "It is not a matter of age, but of temperament. And trust me," she said, setting her cup back onto its saucer as the lazy breeze cooled the back of her neck, "Draco Malfoy is very much a boy. As is Ron, for your information, though not in quite so obnoxious a manner. Have you spoken to him yet?"

Harry sighed in a way that communicated mental exhaustion and replied, "Yes, I have. Several times. I don't know what to tell you. He keeps using the fact that you dated him once as evidence that you'll do it again."

"When in fact," she retorted, "it is the very reason I _won't_ do it again." After a moment, she pressed, "You're sure you can't convince him to back off?"

"Afraid not," he said. "Not unless you let me tell him what you said last week—"

"Absolutely not!" Hermione cut in.

"Oh, come on," Harry said, smiling mischievously. "It'd be rather fun to see the look on his face when I tell him you called him a thick-skulled, wall-eyed—"

"Harry—"

"—barrel-chested tosser!"

"Harry!" Hermione admonished, though she was fighting off the giggles and blushing furiously. "That's enough. I told you not to repeat that, and I meant it."

"Alright, alright," he conceded. "So, how did you manage to escape the Great Ferret?"

"It's funny you should mention it," she said. "When I finally got out of the store, who should I run into but the Great Ferret's father?"

Harry frowned. "Lucius Malfoy?"

Hermione nodded. "The very same. And I do mean _run into_ ; I practically knocked him over in all my grace," she related sarcastically. "Luckily, he's a rather sturdy fellow."

"What did he say?" Harry asked.

"He detained me for a moment – for his own amusement, I suspect. He asked me who I was running from, and I said, 'Your son, as a matter of fact,' and then Draco came outside, and I sort of ducked behind Mister Malfoy and asked him to hide me, and, well... he did."

Harry's brow furrowed deeper. "He did?"

Hermione nodded, returning his look of confusion. "He did."

There was a short pause before Harry asked, "And then what happened?"

"They had a brief exchange, Draco and Lucius, and then he Disapparated and – since I was holding on rather tightly to the back of his robes – so did I. We ended up on the lane that leads to Malfoy Manor, but I didn't realize that at the time, and we walked, and talked, and..."

Harry waited, but she did not continue. "And...?" he eventually prodded.

Hermione shrugged. "...and he wasn't a total bastard."

Now Harry's eyebrows went up in genuine surprise.

Hermione nodded. "I know. Anyway, we reached his house, and he went inside and I went home." She affixed Harry with a mind-numbed stare. "And Ronald was there."

"Oh, dear," Harry offered, leaning back in his seat.

"Oh, dear, indeed. I made short work of it, just told him I was tired and shut the door on him. Anyway, enough about me – how is Ginny?"

"Oh, she's great," Harry replied with a grin, all too eager to talk about his wife. "She's passed the morning sickness, finally, and the doctor says her weight is right on track. Hardly any mood swings, thank God, and the ones she has are mild. But she eats everything in front of her and then some. We're going to the grocery twice a week at least. God knows where she puts all of it!"

"Do you know yet if it's a boy or a girl?" Hermione asked, dimpling with ill-contained excitement.

Harry beamed in return. "A boy. James Arthur."

"Oh, Harry, that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks," he replied, still smiling so broadly that he was showing practically all his teeth. "I hope he looks just like her."

Hermione sighed, looking on her friend with not a little envy. "You're so lucky you fell in love with a pureblood, Harry." She wiped a hand over her face and cradled her forehead in her hand, propping it up with her elbow on the table. "You have no idea how convenient that is."

Harry blinked slowly, cocking his head to the side. "Things will work out for the best, if you let them," he said. "Just try to have an open mind."

Hermione thanked him for the advice and acted as though she would take it, but inside, she was not the least bit fooled by his false optimism. He knew as well as she did that her future would likely not include the kind of happiness he had been so fortunate to find.

They hugged goodbye and Harry turned on his heel, disappearing with a loud pop. Hermione began walking down the street towards the Hog's Head, intending to do some shopping in Diagon Alley, and had made it almost halfway there when she saw – who else? – Draco Malfoy rounding the corner in her direction. Startled, she stopped in her tracks, and a moment later saw recognition on his face. It all happened in an instant: he started towards her more purposefully, she instinctively Disapparated, and she ended up in the first place that had crossed her mind.


	3. The Same Lucius Malfoy

When Hermione opened her eyes, still tense from the surprise of seeing Draco, she dropped her shoulders, cocked her head, and stared at the house before her, utterly befuddled.

She was standing outside the gardens of Malfoy Manor.

Intent on getting out of there before she was seen, Hermione concentrated on her apartment as she began to turn on her heel, but mid-turn she caught sight of a tall, blond figure and was so startled that she stumbled gracelessly and remained exactly where she was.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy calmly greeted her, betraying none of his surprise.

"Mister Malfoy," she breathed in reply, her heart still thumping in a combination of adrenaline from her flight and the shock of finding herself on Malfoy property.

There was a long pause before he said, "May I inquire as to what you're doing in my garden?"

He did not ask it rudely, but as always there was a pompous air about him, and it irritated Hermione. "I didn't Apparate onto your lawn on purpose," she tersely informed him. "It was an unconscious decision. I crossed paths with _your son_ and I needed to leave in a hurry; and since I had the name Malfoy on the brain, it is no great mystery that I ended up here."

Lucius merely continued staring expressionlessly at her.

Sighing, Hermione said, "Look, I apologize for trespassing. I'll be going now."

"Since you're here," Lucius interjected before she could disappear, "why not take a turn about the garden? It will give you some time to recuperate."

Hermione was assaulted by a variety of sensations; confusion at his gallantry, fear of Draco's imminent appearance, and a sharp stitch in her side were among the most pressing. "Won't Draco be coming home soon?" she asked.

Lucius shook his head. "Draco does not live here anymore. He has a flat in London." He eyed the hand she was pressing to her ribcage, took a step towards her, and said, "You really ought to take a walk. It helps."

Grimacing slightly at the pang in her side, Hermione asked, "Is that why you Apparate half a mile from your house?"

"As a matter of fact, it is." He waited a moment, then pressed, "Come, I was just about to walk the garden myself."

She was still very wary of this man, having seen ample evidence of his maliciousness over the past ten years, but her abdominal muscles were screeching their protest to further abuse. It also occurred to her that, with his wife having left him and his son having moved out, Lucius was probably lonely in that enormous house all by himself. There was a barely detectable light of hope in his eyes as he extended his invitation to her; perhaps he was a little grateful for her company, however unexpectedly it had arrived. That decided her. "Alright," she conceded, and they began to walk.

They strolled alongside hedges, trees, and bushes, each decorated with flowers – some Hermione recognized, like roses, but most of them exotic blooms she had never seen before. They did not vary overmuch in color (white, violet, and blue were the only shades she saw) but were somehow more beautiful for that.

Eventually, Lucius ventured to ask: "How long has Draco been pursuing you?"

Hermione answered with an exasperated sigh. "Ever since that ridiculous marriage law was passed. First I was a leper, and then I was Helen of Troy. Literally, from one day to the next. It's almost as though he was waiting for the excuse."

"I beg your pardon," Lucius began, "but who is Helen of Troy?"

"Oh," Hermione said, having once again forgotten that magic and non-magic culture rarely, if ever, cross paths. "She's a royal in ancient Greek mythology. It is said that she had the face that launched a thousand ships—that is, she was so beautiful that she started a war."

"Indeed?" Lucius sounded genuinely intrigued. "Who fought in this war?"

Hermione was suspicious, because Lucius Malfoy was the very last wizard she would have expected to be interested in Muggle history. However, she was Hermione Granger, and if someone asked her a scholarly question, by God, she would answer it. "Her husband, the king of Sparta, led his army against the army of her lover, a prince of Troy."

"And I suppose love conquered all, did it not?" he asked in gentle mocking.

"Actually, almost everybody died and she returned to Sparta with her husband."

And with that abrupt end to an otherwise romantic story, they each fell into silence for a time. Eventually, feeling that idle chat was perhaps a safer course of conversation, he inquired after how she had spent her afternoon.

Hermione felt somewhat awkward at the thought of discussing his former master's mortal enemy with him, but she ignored her nervousness and boldly replied, "I was having coffee with Harry."

Lucius nodded, as though news of the Boy Who Lived was no news at all. "And how is Mister Potter?" he politely inquired.

Hermione eyed him guardedly, but answered. "Very well. He's married to Ginny Weasley." Another awkward person to mention around him, much less directly to him, and another name to which he refused to react. "They're expecting a son in December."

Lucius appeared to ponder that for a while; then he nodded and said, rather softly, "Good."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "Good?" she repeated dumbly, studying his face for some clue to his motivations.

He merely nodded. "Yes."

"You mean you're glad to hear of it?"

He returned her gaze without much expression, unintentionally making it impossible for her to read him and thus frustrating her even more. "Yes."

No more enlightened and rapidly approaching the end of her patience, she blurted out, "Why?"

Lucius treated her to an especially lopsided smirk and countered with, "Is gladness not an appropriate reaction to the news? Indeed, I thought it was customary."

Hermione exhaled shortly, a figurative hairsbreadth from full-blown exasperation, and said, "You know what I'm asking."

Lucius' eyes communicated that he did. He nodded in acknowledgement of that fact, sighed so deeply that his shoulders visibly rose and fell, and said, "I was almost responsible for bringing about their deaths. Hers, just the once; his, on numerous occasions. And all for the sake of a cause which amounted to genocide. I am glad that he will be a father because perhaps that joy can begin to make up for the grief which I aided so considerably in visiting upon them both."

Hermione stopped in her tracks, and in so doing caught Lucius by surprise to such a degree that he froze, as well. "You _are_ Lucius Malfoy, aren't you?" she asked, her voice marked not only by open confusion, but also by poorly-masked irritation at his failure to behave as she expected. "The same Lucius Malfoy who put Tom Riddle's diary in Ginny's hands? The one who taught Draco to call me 'Mudblood'? Lord Voldemort's favorite Death Eater?"

His expression remained aloof, and his answer was deadpan. "I was hardly his favorite," he pointlessly informed her. "I was third at best, behind Severus or Bellatrix, depending on the day—"

She put her hands on her hips and affixed him with an authoritative stare; it might have been humorous coming from one so young, but in fact Lucius had never seen its equal. "Stop deflecting," she gently but firmly demanded, in true matronly fashion.

Lucius was unsure how to respond, and so he only looked at her for a long time. She didn't abandon their staring match, apologize for her outburst, or indeed give any indication that she would be satisfied without an answer. He took a breath and held it for a moment before answering. "Would you like the short version, or the long?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "Long."

Lucius nodded, and continued on their stroll, confident that she would follow. "Lord Voldemort," he softly began, still unaccustomed to using the name, "was a predator. Predators have a special talent for sensing weaknesses, and for using those weaknesses to their advantage." There was a brief hesitation during which he tried to decide how best to phrase what he meant to say, and Hermione didn't press him. "Sympathizers with his cause shared not only a belief in their own superiority, but a severe lack of exposure to differing viewpoints. That's how the seed of prejudice germinates, you see; one only associates with others like oneself."

Hermione nodded. "I know."

"Well," he continued, "the most radical of all his sympathizers became the first Death Eaters. I was among them." His tone was tinged rather heavily with regret. "And I can tell you with utter certainty that the one thing which united us all was a lack of identity. We had all been taught by our parents, and theirs before them, that our blood status was the only thing which set us apart and made us unique."

Hermione's smirk was tinged with resentment. "Pureblood first and human being second?"

Lucius nodded. "Yes," he answered with a simple, matter-of-fact tone. "Without our status, we each of us hadn't even the faintest idea who we were. People had steadily cared less and less about their heritage – and ours, consequently – with each passing generation. Deeply ingrained in us was the fear of blood status becoming obsolete, and by extension becoming insignificant ourselves. The Dark Lord spoke so eloquently, so passionately, about the nobility of our bloodlines. And he assured us that, were he to succeed, blood status would be more important in our world than it had ever been before. He promised us identity, distinction, honor, power. Such a gifted orator," Lucius said, his voice laden with bitterness. "He had us all salivating."

Hermione listened, understood, and found herself unable to argue.

"It wasn't until later – much, much too late – that I realized how very wrong I was; how wrong we all were." Lucius found it excruciating to remember, but in telling of it he found some sort of relief, and so he continued. "When he planned to send my son to slaughter as punishment for my failures, I understood that, while his entire ethos was borne of prejudice, his cruelty was indiscriminate. After that, it was but a short leap to the realization that he was inhuman. I began to question every word that fell from his lips. Eventually, I saw everything clearly."

They walked in an intense yet oddly comfortable silence for a time, each deep in their own thoughts. When they had completed their journey around the garden and found themselves once again at its entrance, Hermione spoke. "Just out of curiosity, what was the short version?"

They approached the obnoxiously tall doors of Malfoy Manor, and Lucius paused to answer her. "The short version is: No, I am not the same." He bowed, once again leaving her with an incomplete and perfunctory goodbye.


	4. Girl Toy

Hermione stayed in her apartment for days, having reached the conclusion that venturing outside simply wasn't safe for her at the present. Being the heir to the Malfoy fortune meant that Draco had no need of gainful employment and was therefore free to stalk Wizarding London as much as he pleased – which, unfortunately for Hermione, was all the livelong day. Her sole comfort in his single-minded pursuit of her was that he did not have her address.

Ronald Weasley, however, did. And he made free use of it once, sometimes twice, a day.

Hermione actively resented that her only alternative to answering the door when he came calling (which she adamantly refused to do) was to hit the floor at the sound of his knock. That she had been forced into the role of prisoner in her own home simply for the hope of avoiding her stubborn suitors infuriated her.

She sat on her sofa, leaning back against its arm, as she read a book to distract herself from her rapidly growing case of cabin fever. She looked up at the clock and grimaced to herself as she realized that Ron was due sometime in the next half hour or so. His visits, though undesired, were at least predictable; he could always be counted on to show up sometime between three and four in the afternoon. Just as she finished the thought, his distinctive knock sounded. It was easily recognizable because he was the only person she knew who actually used the brass knocker, being somewhat fascinated and amused by its novelty. She rolled her eyes and sank deeper into the sofa and out of sight; it was not unlike him to peer through the window if she didn't answer, as she had learned the hard way a few months before.

He knocked a second time, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm herself. _Just go away_ , she silently pleaded. _My nerves are stretched thin enough as it is._ And it was true; if she spent much longer cooped up in her flat, she thought she might go mad. _Just go away._

"Hermione," he called through her door.

She let out a small groan and, exasperated, whacked herself on the forehead with her book.

"I heard that!"

She sat up and strode to her door, turning over the lock and throwing it wide open. "Yes?" she asked, though her tone was anything but polite.

"Where have you been?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with concern. "I've been coming round every day for a week."

 _More like for the past six months_ , she silently argued. It took everything Hermione had not to scream it at him. She pressed her lips together in a tight line until she had enough control over herself to refrain from doing so. " _I know_ ," she answered instead, slowly and evenly.

He drew his brows together until two distinguishable lines appeared between them. "Why didn't you answer the door?" he questioned in open confusion.

Hermione's patience was hanging on by a single thread, stretched perilously thin and frayed from end to end, thisclose to snapping. She took a deep breath, aware that her nostrils probably flared as she did so, and replied, "I am not _obligated_ to answer the door every time someone knocks on it!" By the end of that single sentence, her voice had lost a noticeable measure of calm. She inhaled again, waited until she had regained it, and continued. "I am not receiving visitors at present."

Ron looked more than slightly affronted at that. "Why not?" he asked, as though he had every right to know.

Snap. Hermione drew just enough breath to bellow, " _I don't feel like it!_ " and slammed the door in his face.

She threw home the lock, the deadbolt, and the chain before smacking the door with her palm and huffing angrily. She paced back and forth for exactly four seconds before he knocked again. Livid, she undid all the locks with trembling hands and pulled the door open again. " _What?_ "

He answered by grabbing her by the waist, propelling her against the door until it hit the wall with a violent bang, and kissing her.

She squeaked in protest, pressed her hands against his chest, pushing with all her might, and twisted her mouth away from his.

He wrapped one arm around her waist and brought his other hand to the side of her face, pulling it back to kiss her again.

Hermione continued to push, but he was much too strong. She gained only inches of distance from her efforts, and he bounced right back when she adjusted the placement of her hands in an attempt to find better leverage – an attempt that was equally unsuccessful. A bizarrely traitorous part of her mind noted that the chest she pushed against was very well formed, as were the shoulders above it. And really, if she stopped fighting, Ron would have been a very good kisser. Much better than when they had dated four years ago.

Still, she had not consented to this, and that was the bottom line. She chose another tactic. First inching her foot around until she found his, she then lifted it and brought her heel down on the toe of his shoe with all the force she could muster. When he was distracted by the pain, she shoved him again. This time he stumbled away from her. She then grabbed him by his shirt collar, foisted him out the door, and closed it, making good use of all its barricades.

She stormed into her bedroom, put on shoes and socks, and pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail, grumbling to herself all the way. "Can't believe...stupid, stupid man!...the nerve…." Then, remembering her conversation with Harry, she ended it with: "Thick-skulled, wall-eyed, barrel-chested _tosser!_ "

Tucking her wand into her jeans, she grabbed her keys and Apparated outside the Leaky Cauldron. She needed to get out of her apartment, to see something other than her own walls and to escape the scene of the incident. She strode into the bar and straight out the back door, not bothering to say hello to anyone or, indeed, even to look around to see if there was anyone worth greeting. She pulled out her wand, tapped the brick, and walked through the archway that appeared.

The other patrons of Diagon Alley gave her a wide berth, seeming to sense her foul mood. She walked down the street, the length of her stride matching the height of her ire, and she looked from side to side as she went, trying to decide where she wanted to stop. Her eyes landed on Madam Malkin's, and she made for the shop with all the determination of a general headed for battle.

Madam Malkin appeared at the sound of her shop door opening. "Welcome!" she greeted Hermione warmly. "What may I do for you, my dear?"

"I need you to sew a nine-inch pocket into the front of my blue jeans," she responded abruptly as she pulled out her wand. "I am _tired_ of carrying this thing around in the back of them!"

Madam Malkin's eyebrows were almost at her hairline as she watched sparks fly out of the tip of Hermione's wand.

"So _that's_ what's been up your bum, Granger."

Hermione closed her eyes, entirely unable to believe her bad luck. "No, no, no, _no!_ " she whined, planting her face in her hands.

"Madam Malkin," Draco said, self-importance and authority dripping smoothly from his lips, "have you finished mending my robes?" He gave her a pointed look.

Understanding him perfectly, she bobbed a quick curtsy and returned to the back of the shop, giving her most valued customer the privacy he so clearly desired.

Hermione didn't turn to face him, which was a grave mistake. "Draco Malfoy, you do not want to cross me today, I swear—"

And suddenly her wand was slipped neatly from her hand. She spun around, her mouth agape, to meet with the sight of Draco holding it, a complacent smile on his face.

She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt. "Give me back my wand." It was an icy command, but her eyes were ablaze.

He smirked and began walking slowly towards her. "I'll give you your wand," he said, and now he was close enough to stroke her cheek. "But you have to give me something first."

Disgusted, Hermione withdrew her face from his reach. She didn't need to ask what he had in mind, and she wished she didn't know. "I'm not about to trade you _anything_ for something that is rightfully mine," she said. "Give it back."

"Mm-mm," he sang into her ear. His breath was warm and unwelcome on her neck.

Hermione was so far beyond tired of being treated like a girl-toy. All the same, she knew that actively fighting him was not the wisest course, because he could be counted upon to use magic when met with resistance. She had learned that the hard way, too. So she remained perfectly still, waiting for an opportune moment – for Madam Malkin to reappear, for another customer to walk in the door, for Draco to unwittingly bring her wand close enough for her to grab it.

None of these things happened. He reached for the top button of her blouse.

"Draco," she said, summoning all her self-control so she wouldn't reach for his hand.

He deftly slipped her button from its hole and kissed her jaw, just below her ear. He reached for the next one.

"Draco," she said again, with a little more force.

He undid that one as well, reached his hand into her shirt, and nipped her earlobe with his teeth.

" _Draco._ "

"Why do you deny me, Granger?" he murmured, his fingertips trespassing most unforgivably. "It's not as though you have more appealing offers."

She drove her knee into his groin. In no more than three seconds, he grunted and removed his hand from her, she pulled her wand from his grip, and she Disapparated.

This time, her destination was entirely intentional.


	5. Tea and Brandy

When she appeared outside the gardens of Malfoy Manor, Lucius was once again in plain sight, and the one lonely ounce of her that wasn't occupied with being livid at the male race felt a certain fondness for this particular male's tendency to always be conveniently available.

He quickly took in her harried appearance – mussed hair and half-open blouse – before settling on her face. "Miss Granger," he began, his voice as always calm and smooth but his tone affected by surprise at the pure, naked rage in her eyes. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Roaming hands!" she shouted, her own hands gesturing wildly in her exasperated fury. "Wayward tongues!" Her fists were now clenched at her sides and she visibly shook. Finally, the summation of her problems exploded from her lips. " _Misplaced sense of ownership!_ " Her wand sparked again.

Lucius' lips pursed into a thoughtful expression as he observed her outrage. "I take it you've had another run-in with my son."

"Your son," she affirmed, shoving her wand back into its place. "Ron Weasley," she continued, buttoning up her shirt. "You're the only man I've seen today who hasn't tried to molest me!" She pulled the elastic band out of her hair and began to fix her ponytail, but she stopped, her hair falling around her face, and met his eyes as she took a step back. "Please don't take that as a challenge."

Lucius chuckled. "I'd like to think I have a bit more self-control than the average twenty-one-year-old male."

Hermione relaxed, returning to the task of pulling her hair out of her face. "Randy, entitled, pubescent twits," she muttered as she did so.

Lucius nodded his approval. "A fitting portrayal."

Having succeeded in binding her untamable locks, Hermione allowed her hands to fall to her sides. "Might we walk the garden again?"

"I was just about to go inside for tea." He turned his body slightly to the side, his shoulder pointing in the direction of the house, but he kept his eyes on her. "Would you care to join me?"

"Can we put brandy in the tea?" Hermione asked. Her voice and her expression communicated an obvious need for a drink.

Again, he laughed. "No, but after tea we can have a glass of brandy."

Teatime at the Malfoy residence consisted of strongly brewed black tea and warm rolls, accompanied by a tray filled with butter, honey, and a row of flavored jams. Lucius was ever the gracious host, even going so far as to dismiss the house elf and serve Hermione himself when he noticed her displeasure at his servant's presence.

"One lump or two?" he asked, hand hovering over the sugar bowl.

"None, thank you," she replied. When he set her tea before her, she spooned some honey into her cup instead.

Smiling in silent amusement at her idiosyncrasy, he placed a roll on her plate and gestured to the tray. "What would you like on your bread?"

"I can do that myself," Hermione said, giggling at the absurdity of the idea of Lucius Malfoy buttering her bread.

"Very well," he said with a smirk, and handed over the plate. "Raspberry," he said, pointing at the first jar on the tray, "blackberry, blueberry, strawberry, and orange."

She waited politely until he finished, though she had made her decision the moment he said "blackberry." Occupied as they were with breaking their afternoon fast, conversation was polite but minimal. It wasn't until Lucius called for brandy that the discussion truly began.

"How are things with the Ministry?" Hermione asked as he poured them each a glass. "Have they let up at all, or are they still urging you to marry?"

Lucius quietly groaned through closed lips as he corked the bottle and set it down. "They want me to throw a party," he answered, handing her a glass, "for unmatched witches and wizards of a certain age." He reclaimed his seat and took a generous sip.

"In the Muggle world, that's called a 'singles group,' and it's viewed as being rather pathetic."

He nodded in agreement. "That's how I view it, as well."

Hermione leaned back in her chair. "Are you going to do it?"

"I haven't decided. I'm still weighing the drawbacks of hosting a 'Pathetic Party' against those of irritating the Ministry."

"Well," Hermione said, smiling prematurely at her own jest, "if you throw it before my birthday, you can invite me to the 'Pathetic Party,' and all the other guests can stand around being pathetic while you and I sneak away to drink brandy and laugh at them."

"But you don't fit into the age group," he contested.

"I'm in no less danger for that!" Hermione returned, her consonants running together a pinch.

Lucius chuckled. "You _really_ can't hold your liquor very well, can you?"

She met his eyes with a defiant expression, though she smirked and her own eyes were a trifle glazed. "I'm fine," she calmly insisted.

"I should have offered the '92," he gently teased, "instead of wasting a glass of the '79 on a cheap date."

Hermione didn't respond, only continued smiling and took another sip.

Lucius watched her for a long moment. "Perhaps I ought to throw a party after all," he began. "It appears, I regret to say, that you could only stand to benefit from it. Have your marriage prospects improved at all?"

"No," she replied. "They're as dismal as ever. Your son appears not to understand the word 'no," while Ron simply doesn't believe me when I say it. His brother George proposed to me once as a joke at a family dinner; he was already married to Angelina by that time, so his falling to his knees in front of the entire family and bawling at the top of his lungs that he would die without me was tremendously funny. Neville Longbottom asked me once, but marrying him would have felt like incest. Now he's engaged to Hannah Abbott. The rest of my possible fiancés are old friends of Draco's, like Gregory Goyle and Blaise Zabini. Goyle has never even attempted conversation with me, though I suspect I'm not missing much. And I don't like the way Blaise looks at me. It's like the way Draco looks at me, only more guarded."

He listened, as always taking the time to reflect on what she said to him before responding. "Is there not a single pureblood you would consider to be a suitable match for you?" he asked.

She shrugged. "How would I know if there was? No one of your persuasion would condescend to speak to me in school, no doubt coached by their parents." Here she raised an eyebrow and gave him a loaded stare. "Meaning you and your friends." She relaxed again. "So I have no idea who among your kind is remotely tolerable."

Lucius did not answer that for a long moment, instead taking the time to fully absorb her words. Finally, he said, "You make a valid point."

"The worst part of this whole sordid affair," she continued, "is that my twenty-second birthday is only a month away."

The whole law was on the barbaric side, but what she referred to was, as she said, the worst part. Once a witch or wizard of less than pureblood status reached the age of twenty-two, if they were not engaged or married to one already, they were obligated to marry the first pureblood who put in a formal request for them with the Ministry.

She expressed her sentiments on that score by scoffing audibly. "It's contemptible," she began, her voice hardening. "To think that I will be forced to marry the first person who asks for me. I have virtually no say in the matter. It's positively medieval. It nauseates me to even think of it." She took a generous swallow of her brandy.

It was a moment before Lucius replied, "Only if you haven't found a pureblood you can tolerate before then."

"In the next thirty days?" she returned wryly. "I'm not in the habit of asking for miracles."

Lucius merely nodded, abandoning that line of conversation. "Who do you suppose will make it to the Ministry first?" he asked instead.

Hermione sighed. "Your son is without a doubt the most determined, which I'm sure won't surprise you. In fact, he'll probably show up to the Ministry early. I don't think his friends will request me at all, because they won't want to challenge him; and I don't think it's even occurred to Ronald that he has competition. So, honestly, I think it will be Draco." She spoke the name with mild distaste, and she began to frown.

Neither of these things escaped Lucius' notice. "Will it really be so terrible to be married to my son?" he gently prodded.

At this, she met his gaze. "You raised him," she pointed out. "What do you think?"

It was a rhetorical question, and he recognized it as such and so did not answer. Instead, he allowed himself to sink into his thoughts. He had been incredibly neglectful as a parent in spoiling his only child. Miss Granger was quite right when she guessed that Draco was unfamiliar with the word "no," and in laying the blame on Lucius. He had taught his son that their heritage made them superior in every way to the rest of the magical world, and that Draco deserved the best because he was the best. He had allowed his son to grow up thinking that he should and would always get what he wanted, due simply to his own alleged superiority and not because he had earned it. Lucius had done a great disservice not only to his son, but to society has a whole, because he had created a monster and then unleashed it upon an unsuspecting public. "I think," he began, sighing regretfully, "Miss Granger, that Mister Weasley may, in fact, be the lesser of two evils."


	6. An Invitation

It was now a week until Hermione's birthday, and the time that had passed had been much less stressful, but rather dull. Ron had stopped by a few days after she had nearly broken his toes to apologize for upsetting her – but stubbornly refused to regret actually kissing her – and now only visited twice a week. Occasionally she let him in, more out of respect for their past friendship than any desire to allow him to court her, and they would pass an hour or so in relatively easy companionship before she suggested that it was getting late and he would reluctantly leave.

She had been lucky to avoid Draco almost entirely, running into him only once at a restaurant in Diagon Alley. That one encounter, however, was one of the worst yet. She hadn't noticed him in the restaurant, and when she had gone to the ladies' room, he had followed, touching where he wasn't allowed and making terrible puns and generally invading her personal space. He had gotten his hand nearly all the way up her skirt before she escaped, which she only managed to do because she distracted him by pretending she was about to kiss him. It had then been the work of a moment to slip his own wand from his grasp and cast a stunning spell.

Hermione really did not understand why he thought that backing her into a corner and running his hands all over her without her permission was supposed to make her like him. Unless, of course, he had such an inflated opinion of his skills in the groping department that repetitive exposure to his magic hands was sure to wear down her resistance eventually.

Actually, now that she thought of it, she understood him perfectly.

Harry and Ginny had gone on vacation to Ireland, taking with them her only reliable source of company or entertainment – except for the thoroughly enigmatic and wholly perplexing Mister Malfoy, from whom she had not heard since their tea and brandy over three weeks earlier.

And so, Hermione filled the days she did not shop or eat out with her favorite activity: reading, of course. She was in this way occupied in her oversized chair one afternoon when something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Looking up from her book, she saw a large owl with shining, silver feathers flapping its wings insistently outside her window. Getting up from her chair, she opened the window and let the bird in. It made itself at home on her coffee table, ruffling its feathers and looking at her with round, knowing eyes. She reached over to retrieve the piece of parchment tied to the owl's leg, gave its head a gentle caress, and unrolled the note. It was unsigned, but watermarked with Lucius Malfoy's monogram.

__

_I hope your day has been more enjoyable than mine._

Hermione chuckled and shook her head in puzzlement. What a peculiar way to deliver such an inconsequential message! Especially considering how far Wiltshire was from London. She reached over to her coffee table and picked up a ballpoint pen lying there, and scribbled her response on the back of his note.

__

_You made this poor owl fly almost one hundred miles  
just to tell me that? For shame!_

She tied the parchment back to the bird's foot, still chuckling to herself at the oddity of his memo, and lifted it out her window before settling back down into her chair and picking up her book again. The owl returned mere minutes later, rousing Hermione's suspicions; he must have been quite nearby to send her a reply so quickly.

__

_Don't fret over the owl, Miss Granger.  
I am at Madam Malkin's getting some dress robes fitted._

Nearby, indeed! He was in the same city. Hermione was relieved by his proximity; she had been bored to tears the past few weeks, what with Harry and Ginny having gone on holiday, but had not wanted to impose her company upon him. If he was already so near her house, maybe he wouldn't mind stopping by for tea.

But when she picked up her pen, Hermione was somehow hesitant to compose the invitation. He had never seen her apartment before, and it was a great deal less impressive than his manor; she imagined him, in all his wizardly state, sitting in her comparatively ordinary living room, and the visual was completely paradoxical. He would not be at ease in her flat, she was certain. She also had some doubts as to whether or not their partially realized friendship had progressed to the stage where such a request would be pertinent. He had only ever extended an invitation to her when she had thrown herself in his way.

And yet, here he was engaging her in small talk through owl notes.

Hermione settled on sending him the kind of familiar, teasing rejoinder she would send any other friend.

__

_Very well. I am satisfied that the owl  
has not been misused._

This time, after she dispatched the bird, she did not continue reading, but instead waited somewhat impatiently for his answering note, glancing at her wall clock or scanning the sky frequently. Exactly seven minutes later (and she knew, because she had been counting), it arrived.

__

_I have something for you._

Hermione's curiosity was piqued, but she was slightly exasperated at the brevity of his reply. She made hers even shorter, though she continued to tease him.

__

_Like a present?_

She had to wait only four minutes this time.

__

_Not exactly.  
I'm fairly certain you won't like it._

Hermione frowned at the words in consternation; what could he possibly mean?

__

_Then why are you giving it to me?_

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, and Hermione began to think that perhaps she had offended him. Resigning herself to the fact that it appeared there would likely be no more notes that afternoon, she got up from her chair and walked into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

She had just removed her shrilly whistling kettle from the stove when his silvery owl returned, soaring neatly through her open window and landing on her breakfast table with an immaculately white, rectangular item clutched in its beak.

Intrigued, Hermione immediately stepped closer. Upon keener inspection, she realized it was a formal invitation.

It was obviously of the highest quality; the words, as well as the Malfoy crest, were engraved in black and silver on premium cardstock, which had a linen finish and felt like velvet between her fingers. Looped intricately through several holes around the edges and tied into an elegant bow at the top was a delicate, black satin ribbon. Reverently, Hermione took it from the bird and read.

**__**

__**Lucius Abraxas Malfoy**   
**requests the pleasure of**   
**Hermione Granger's**   
**company at a ball**   
**on Saturday the fifteenth of September**   
**at seven o'clock**   
**at Malfoy Manor**

Feeling absurdly like Cinderella, Hermione allowed herself exactly ten seconds to blush and giggle like a teenager before taking a deep, cleansing breath and reminding herself that, although it was called a ball on the invitation, it was almost certainly the previously discussed singles group in actuality, and was therefore not nearly as glamorous or exciting as she was imagining. Once she had talked herself firmly into that mindset, she turned it over to see if he had written anything on the back – which, of course, he had.

__

_Because I am inherently a selfish person_  
and I think the only way I will find this accursed party  
even remotely bearable is if you attend. 

****  


It was definitely the "pathetic party." Hermione laughed aloud, as she could imagine exactly how he would have said it had this conversation occurred in person. He would have begun with barely perceptible sarcasm and self-mockery, and finished with heavy bitterness at the idiocy of what the Ministry had succeeded in pressuring him to do. She was appropriately flattered by his insinuation that hers was the only company he expected to enjoy at the ball, should she choose to attend, but if there was any hint at flirtation written between those lines, it went straight over her head.

Smiling to herself, she detached the RSVP card, checked the box marked "accepts with pleasure," and sent the owl on its way.


	7. Pathetic Party

Hermione stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, the bottom inches of her only formal dress pooled around her bare feet, and huffed in frustration at her reflection. She had been attempting for several minutes to alter the hue to just the right shade of purple, but each spell left it slightly off. If it was too blue it washed out her skin, and if she ventured too far into red territory she came perilously close to fuchsia, which was unacceptable.

The dress, aside from its adamantly imperfect color, was lovely. Made of silk charmeuse that fell like water along her body, it fit like a glove through her waist before dropping in a straight line from the widest point of her hips to the floor. It subtly reflected small amounts of light when hit with it, and fell into deeper and richer shades in the shadows. The material's highlights and lowlights constantly shifted as she moved, lending to the illusion that it moved of its own accord. The dress was strapless, and the silk gathered beautifully at its gently plunging neckline, which was held in place with an invisible metal "V" sewn into the fabric.

It was, in a word, beautiful, and Hermione looked beautiful in it. Nothing could have been more flattering to the natural curves of her slender frame, and the neckline distracted from the fact that her endowments were not as generous as they could be. The color, however, was proving to be a substantial vexation, and Hermione had a small window of time left before she went from "fashionably late" to simply "late," and she hadn't even decided what to do about her hair or makeup.

Exasperated, Hermione expelled a rather unfeminine growl, gathered a fistful of the dress in her hand so she wouldn't step on the hem, and marched into her closet. She pawed through piles of shoes she never wore (because, though they gratified her sense of style, they caused her unmentionable pain), purses she never carried (because, though they were adorable, they were small and impractical), and clothes she had yet to launder, looking for something she owned that was close to the color she desired. Finally, she laid her hands on a cashmere sweater she had entirely forgotten about (not having seen it since early March). It was an exquisite shade of deep orchid; it was perfect.

Grinning, she returned to her mirror with the sweater in hand. With the target color right before her eyes, the spell was child's play. Having succeeded at last, Hermione twisted her caramel waves into a low, relaxed bun at the nape of her neck, allowing a few loose strands to frame her face; applied dark brown liner and almond-toned shadow to her eyes, rosy pink blush to her cheeks, and sheer gloss to her lips; clasped a small diamond pendant hanging on a delicate silver chain around her neck and matching studs in her ears; and slipped into a pair of silver peep-toe heels. Giving herself a final appraisal in the mirror and deeming herself worthy of a black-tie event, she slipped her wand into her silver clutch (on which she had placed an Undetectable Extension charm) and Disapparated.

 

Feeling that Apparating directly onto Malfoy property would be in poor taste on the night of a social event, Hermione instead elected to appear just outside the gates. They opened as she took a step towards them, and she immediately began walking down the drive.

There were softly glowing paper lanterns floating on either side of the path, and after a minute or so Malfoy Manor appeared around a bend, lit exuberantly by dozens more surrounding it. Every window on the face of the house had a light on the inside, giving the residence a more welcoming aura than Hermione had ever seen it possess. As she approached, it only grew, and by the time she reached the doors she felt utterly at ease.

That feeling was immediately dispelled upon her entry into the house. The manor had always been grand – that much was a given – but the glittering world she was walking into was simply beyond anything she had ever imagined. The overlarge front hall, she now realized, had another purpose: magnificent ballroom. The chandelier shone more brightly than would have seemed possible, shedding its light into every bright corner, every white silk streamer, every grain of the gleaming wood floor, and every facet of every crystal candleholder and goblet, which reflected the light back in a breathtaking sparkle, mimicking the jewels that adorned every lady present.

The guests were another lesson in splendor altogether. Finer gowns and robes Hermione had never witnessed, nor had she ever before seen so many precious gems united in one room. She was surrounded by taffeta, velvet, and satin, as well as diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds; suddenly she felt that the slinky material of her dress was inappropriate at such a gathering, and that her puny diamond pendant was hopelessly substandard.

Beginning to wish that she had not come, Hermione was just about to locate the nearest bathroom to attempt to transfigure her apparel into something more equal to her surroundings when her course of action was altered for her.

"Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy smoothly greeted her with a shallow bow and a subtle smile.

"Mister Malfoy," she replied, wondering if she should curtsy but knowing she would feel utterly foolish doing so. She compromised by lowering her head in an imitation of his bow.

"May I escort you to the champagne fountain?" he asked.

"Champagne _fountain?_ " she repeated incredulously, looking around for the piece of ostentation. Before he could answer her, however, she was recalled to her concerns. "Are you sure I'm not... underdressed?" she asked, eyeing the other guests self-consciously.

"Of course you're not," he answered with a slight frown. "You look stunning." He then offered her his arm, and after a moment of hesitation, she elected to believe him and took it.

Being personally escorted by her host (who was dressed quite fabulously, himself, in the Wizarding version of a black tuxedo with a deep green bowtie, matching emerald cufflinks, and white gloves) did wonders for her uncertainty; by the time they reached the champagne fountain (which was five feet tall and exactly as grandiose as it sounded), she felt like she fit right in with the elegant crowd. He picked up a fresh goblet and filled it with the sparkling wine, handed it to her, and filled one of his own; then they began a leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the room.

"It seems odd to me," Hermione observed, "that the Ministry would deem it important to match wizards and witches in this age bracket. Most of these women are nearing the end of their child-bearing years, aren't they?"

"Yes," Lucius confirmed, "but it still feeds into the Ministry's agenda. Although no one here – present company excluded – is obligated to marry, if they did it would set an example for the younger generation. They are all under the same pressure from the Ministry that I am."

"I see," she acknowledged.

After a moment of silence in which Hermione could tell he was fashioning a thought into a sentence, Lucius broached a brand-new subject. "I took the liberty of circulating a report that you were spoken for," he told her matter-of-factly.

Taken aback and more than a little confused, Hermione cast him a peculiar look from underneath gathered brows. "You did? Why?"

He leaned slightly in her direction, ensuring that he would be able to deliver his explanation quietly enough to keep from being overheard. "Being that you are the youngest and most attractive woman here, you would be highly sought after. And you must trust my judgment on this: most of the gentlemen present would be even less suited to you than Ronald Weasley."

Hermione, ever governed by logic and having already observed all the female guests and deemed them unremarkable, took his interpretation of her as no more than a statement of fact and missed the compliment he had paid her entirely. "When did you have the time to spread a rumor? You've been with me ever since I arrived."

"You are rather naïve, Miss Granger," he admonished her, though it was gently and playfully done. "Every male eye was on you the moment you walked in the door. I immediately told the man nearest to me that you were off limits, and then I came to join you."

"Hmm," was all Hermione had to say on the matter. Then she asked, "If I'm allegedly spoken for, what am I doing at a singles' gathering?"

The corner of Lucius' mouth twitched so minutely that if she had not been studying his expression with such focus she would have missed it. "You're the party planner," he replied mildly.

An appreciative grin spread across her face as she perceived his careful plan. "You're good," she admired, turning her gaze once more to the party. "Who _actually_ planned it?"

"I did," he confided.

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You did this?" she asked incredulously, gesturing to the twinkling chandelier, silk streamers and assorted crystal. When he nodded, she said to him, "Now I feel guilty for taking the credit."

"Don't be silly," he quickly returned. "I could never admit to organizing and decorating all of this. It would completely emasculate me." Hermione laughed appreciatively at his jest, but he turned his gaze to her and there was not a trace of amusement in his eyes as he said, "I'm afraid I'm quite serious."

Lucius left her side shortly thereafter to see to his hosting duties, after having introduced her to a small group of women with whom he thought she would get along tolerably well. She found that she would fit in with them as long as she kept some of her more progressive opinions to herself – something she did not particularly enjoy doing – and spent the hour before dinner was served absorbed in careful and polite chitchat.

Lucius drew the attention of his guests promptly at eight-thirty and announced dinner. They all followed him into the dining room, and Hermione slowly walked alongside the alarmingly long and ornately carved dining table, reading the name card at each setting. She had walked almost the entire length of the table and had yet to find hers, and she began to feel the unpleasant tingles of predicted embarrassment in her belly as she worried that she would be the very last to find her seat. When she at last found her place, her anxiety was replaced with relief and surprise; she had been seated directly to the right of the head of the table! The seat at the host's right hand was traditionally reserved for a guest of honor; being that she was a Muggle-born and that her and Lucius' acquaintance had been only recently renewed, however, she was certain that it was merely an oversight.

She noticed that everyone was standing in front of their places and seemed to be waiting for something, so she followed suit. When Lucius reached his place at the head of the table he stood for a ceremonious moment before taking his seat, and then everyone else took theirs. The plates magically filled with food the way they did at Hogwarts; on tonight's menu was steak with a cognac pepper sauce along with garlic mashed potatoes. At Hermione's first bite of the tender beef, her eyes fell involuntarily closed; it was without a doubt one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted.

Her flavor-induced trance was interrupted by Lucius seeking dinner conversation. "How do you find the filet, Miss Granger?"

She took a moment to swallow her bite, her taste buds already mourning the absence of the food, before replying. "It's wonderful. My father used to cook steaks when I was a child, but they were nothing like this."

Lucius was intrigued. "Your father cooked?"

She nodded. "Yes. My mother never had the knack for it; she was always better with desserts."

"What sorts of things did she make?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

"Oh, all sorts. Cakes, pies, pudding... Her specialty was Italian cream cake."

"I have never heard of it," he admitted.

"The cake itself is rather bland," Hermione explained, "but the icing makes up for it. It's a cream cheese icing with fresh grated coconut mixed in, and slivered almonds on top."

Lucius smirked. "It sounds positively decadent," he declared.

Hermione returned the half-smile. "It's delicious."

A beat passed before Lucius continued, a subtle note of teasing audible in his tone. "But is it delectable?"

Hermione's eyes had already returned to her plate, and she kept them there, though her amusement was plain on her face. "Delightfully so," she answered, placing another morsel of meat in her mouth.

Lucius chuckled softly at their game, and then engaged the wizard to his left in idle chat and let her eat in peace.

 

It was around eleven-thirty before guests started to leave; by midnight, only she and five others remained. Hermione had thoroughly enjoyed herself throughout the evening (and had even learned how to waltz after dinner, courtesy of her host), but the combination of the late hour, the dwindling number of guests, and the lingering presence of alcohol in her system made the atmosphere grow a little too intimate for Hermione's comfort. Lucius was conversing with two other people across the room; Hermione walked over to him and waited until he paused the dialogue to acknowledge her presence. "Thank you so much for having me, Mister Malfoy. It was lovely."

"Are you leaving?" he asked. "I'll walk you out."

"No, really, you don't have to—"

"I insist, Miss Granger." He excused himself from his companions and they began walking towards the door.

He said nothing, and Hermione felt a little awkward. "Was the party a success?" she asked.

"You are in a better position to judge that," he countered.

"How so? This was a matchmaking party; you ensured I wouldn't pair up with anyone."

He turned his head to her, a look of concern upon his face. "Did I offend you by doing so? If I did, I apologize."

"No," she quickly assured him, "you didn't offend me. I only meant that I wouldn't know."

Lucius thought for a moment. "Whether it was successful or not really does not concern me," he said. "The Ministry wanted me to throw a party, and I did. My obligations have been met."

Hermione laughed. "Was it an obligation? You looked to be enjoying yourself."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "I did enjoy myself. That does not mean it wasn't an obligation."

"Fair enough," was Hermione's reply.

He saw her all the way outside to the top of the stairs leading to the path, and then they stopped and faced one another.

"Thank you for the invitation," Hermione said again. "It was nice to have an excuse to dress up," she added with a nervous laugh.

"It was my pleasure, Miss Granger."

She hoped he would not bow again, and he didn't; instead, he reached for her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed a quick kiss upon her knuckles.

"Good night."

In the very next instant, he had returned into the house.

Amused, Hermione thought to herself that throwing a ball must put Lucius Malfoy in a very curious mood; waltzing, seeing her to the door, kissing her hand! She carefully made her way down the steps and walked down the drive towards the gates, chuckling to herself all the way.

When she had reached the curve in the path that led away from the manor, she paused, turned around, and cast one last look upon it. She savored it as long as she could, took a deep breath, and Disapparated.

She was glad to have such a lovely memory of one of her last days as a free woman.


	8. Happy Birthday to Me

Hermione slept erratically the night before her birthday, awoke for the fourth time at about a quarter to eight o'clock in the morning, and finally decided that trying to sleep any more would be a fruitless endeavor. Groggily, she rose from her bed, walked over to her closet, plucked the first sweater she saw (a green cashmere pullover) from its hanger, and pulled on the same blue jeans she had worn the day before. Adequately dressed, she shuffled into the kitchen, where she immediately started a pot of coffee.

As it brewed, she threw together some waffle batter with a little magical aid here and there. After she poured it evenly into her waffle iron and pressed it closed, she retrieved her favorite mug from the cupboard and filled it three-quarters of the way with coffee, the rest of the way with cream. She then returned to her waffle iron and flipped her breakfast onto her plate, adding some pre-sliced strawberries and – her greatest vice – whipped cream.

She carried her plate and mug to the table and sat down. Looking down at her perfectly prepared waffle, she couldn't help feeling that something was missing; then it dawned on her. She stood and walked over to the drawer in the kitchen in which she kept all the miscellaneous things that didn't belong in any of her other drawers. Sifting through pens, refrigerator magnets, and batteries, she reached into the back and found what she was looking for: a year-old package of birthday candles.

She pulled out a pink one, returned to her chair, and stuck it firmly in the middle of her waffle before lighting it with her wand.

"Happy birthday to me," she muttered morosely, and blew the candle out.

As she reached for her fork, she heard a loud tap, tap, tap and looked up to see an owl striking her window with its beak. She stared at it for a rather long time, allowing it to continue its insistent pecking, because she very simply did not want to know what was contained in the letter tied to its leg. Eventually, though, she forced herself to get up and let it in.

After giving it a few knuts and sending it on its way, she unrolled the parchment and read.

_Miss Granger,_

_I am afraid we have a bit of a situation on our hands.  
Please come to the Ministry immediately._

_Respectfully,  
Cornelius Oswald Fudge  
Minister for Magic_

Hermione crumpled the parchment in her fist and threw it on the floor. She sat back down at her breakfast table to enjoy her waffle and coffee.

 _Whatever the situation is,_ she thought to herself, _it can wait five bloody minutes._


	9. I Accept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fudge is the Minister because this wouldn't have been as funny with Kingsley.

It wasn't until Hermione found herself at the Ministry, just down the hall from Fudge's office, that she was finally hit with a healthy dose of stomach-rolling anxiety. What exactly would she be walking into? What kind of "situation" could possibly require her presence to resolve it? Surely this entire, ridiculous thing was well out of her hands by now.

She reached the Minister's door, took a deep breath in an attempt to slow her heartbeat, and knocked.

"Come in, Miss Granger," she heard him beckon.

Hermione opened the door and entered the room to find the Minister accompanied by Draco Malfoy, looking haughty and annoyed; Lucius Malfoy, standing nonchalantly beside him; and Ronald Weasley, whose ears were violently red.

Oh, dear, she thought. Then, sighing heavily, she walked farther into the room until she was close enough to everyone there to be an active part of the conversation. "What seems to be the problem, Minister?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Good morning, Miss Granger, and happy birthday," Fudge greeted her. "I just need you to answer one question, and it should settle this whole thing. Who is Ronald Weasley to you?"

Confused, Hermione furrowed her brow at the Minister and cast a momentary glance in Ron's direction. "Who is he to me?" she repeated.

"Yes, my dear."

 _Ex-boyfriend? Daily annoyance? Pain in my ass?_ "Um..."

"No one," Draco answered for her.

"She's my girlfriend," Ron asserted in a tone that suggested he had already said it several times that morning.

"She is not," Draco contended, still addressing the Minister. "And even if she was, it would be irrelevant. They are not engaged."

"Ignore him," Ron said to Fudge. "We've been together since before this law was even passed."

"Is that true, Miss Granger?" the Minister asked.

Hermione knew she had to step carefully. She couldn't bring herself to lie to the head of the magical government, but she still wasn't sure if throwing Ron under the bus was in her best interest, considering that her only other option was Draco. "Well... not exactly, but—"

"Are you engaged to him?" Fudge inquired, each word forcefully enunciated. It was clear that his patience was wearing thin.

Hermione sighed. "No, I'm not."

" _Yet!_ " Ron amended. "We're not engaged _yet!_ But we intend to be! We're... we're engaged to be engaged!"

"Is that true?" Fudge repeated, once again turning to Hermione.

Exhausted by the utter absurdity of her situation, she could only numbly shake her head and gesture helplessly.

"Mister Weasley," Fudge began, "I cannot disregard Mister Malfoy's official request for Miss Granger without just cause. Can either of you give it to me?" he asked, signaling Ron and then Hermione in turn.

"Yes, I can," he maintained. "Hermione and I have a history. We've had feelings for each other since we were in school. We started dating as soon as the war was over." He paused then, blushed indelicately, shyly lowered his gaze, and continued more quietly. "We had each other's virginity."

" _Ron!_ " Hermione hissed in reproach, thoroughly mortified to have her dirty laundry aired in front of her other would-be fiancé, his father, and the Minister of Magic.

"That's very touching, Weasley," Draco sarcastically countered, "but the fact remains that _you are not engaged._ " He spoke the last words very loudly and slowly, as though to someone who was either hard of hearing or very stupid. "As of twelve o'clock on the morning of her twenty-second birthday, she was still not spoken for, and I made the first formal request for her. She is mine!"

"She is _not_ yours!" Ron argued, his volume beginning to rise in his anger. "She has been mine since we were seventeen!"

"Then tell me why there isn't a ring on her finger!" Draco demanded. "Wait, let me guess. You couldn't afford one!"

" _Death Eater!_ " Ron roared furiously.

" _Pauper!_ " Draco shot in return.

"If I may," Lucius smoothly interrupted, causing both young men to fall silent, though they still looked like they were trying to murder each other with their eyes. "I have called in an old favor with the Minister," he continued, nodding his head respectfully in the direction of Fudge, who returned it, "which should settle this argument most effectively."

"Hah!" Draco barked triumphantly, smiling at Ron in a sickeningly self-satisfied way. "Looks like you finish last _again,_ Weasley."

Hermione sank into herself, feeling more hurt than she would have expected. She had thought that she and Lucius were friends, of a sort. He had acted as though he respected her, at least, and very probably liked her; he knew perfectly well that she did not want to marry Draco; and yet here he was, ensuring that she would have to. How could he do this to her?

She looked at him with glistening eyes, silently asking him that very question, and he returned her gaze, though the words he spoke were to the Minister. "I hereby formally request Hermione Granger's hand in marriage."

All of the oxygen was sucked out of the room, and Hermione nearly crumpled under the weight of the oppressive silence that followed. Her mouth hung open, though she did not feel it; the Minister smiled, though she did not see it. Lucius' eyes were unswervingly set on hers, and she found that she could not look away.

" _WHAT?_ " Ron bellowed.

"Calm down, Mister Weasley," Mister Fudge said.

"Father, you can't be serious!" Draco insisted.

"What's the matter, Draco?" Lucius drawled, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. His eyes were still locked on Hermione's. "You disapprove my choice?"

Something in his expression caused an indecent amount of blood to rush to her cheeks.

" _YOU SNEAKY, POMPOUS—_ "

"This is not fair!"

" _—TWO-FACED—_ "

"More than that, it's illegal!"

" _—MUGGLE-HATING—_ "

"I made the first request!"

" _—SNAKE IN THE—_ "

" _QUIET!_ " Fudge shouted. Then, encouraging Hermione to answer: "Miss Granger?"

Again, silence pressed upon her. Four faces peered expectantly at her: Draco was appalled, Ron's complexion rivaled his hair, Lucius waited patiently, and the Minister looked as though he had better things to do. She tried and tried again to absorb what had just happened, convinced that she must be dreaming. Lucius Malfoy, ask to marry her? It simply could not be.

"Miss Granger," the Minister prodded again.

Hermione looked once more at Lucius. As was almost always the case when he was not smirking in condescension or amusement, his face was an expressionless mask. Could she stand to be married to him? Was he really so much better than his son, her only other alternative? She imagined one day – no, one hour – as the wife of Draco Malfoy, who would treat her as a trophy or a decorative mantelpiece at best and as a sperm receptacle at worst. Yes, she decided, Lucius was by far the better choice. Then she saw it, a flicker in his eyes, there for an instant before it was gone: hope.

She took a deep, steadying breath, held it a moment, and then she murmured: "I accept."

Fudge nodded, ready to proceed with the formality and move on to whatever else he had on his agenda for the day. "Very well, then," he said as he scribbled something in an open book on his desk. "Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger, if you would please approach." He stood from his chair and came around to stand before his desk, beckoning them with his hands.

" _No_ ," Draco firmly protested. "Minister, this is completely out of bounds. The law clearly states—"

"I am aware of what the law states, Mister Malfoy," Fudge calmly interrupted, raising his hand to silence Draco. "You must have skimmed over the part which says that the Minister holds the power to, shall we say, _rearrange_ marriage requests under special circumstances."

Draco was sneering most unattractively. "What kind of circumstances?"

Fudge smiled complacently. "At my discretion."

"This is rubbish!" Ron shouted. "If you're going to rearrange things, you should let her choose which of us she's going to marry!"

"Enough!" Hermione shouted, at last demanding to be heard. She paused long enough to take a deep, calming breath, and continued in a more reasonable tone. "This is really very simple. Lucius Malfoy has asked for my hand," she said, meeting his eyes. "The Minister's records"—and here she gestured to the book on Fudge's desk—"will show that he made the first request. And I have accepted. That is the end of it."

"Well spoken, Miss Granger," Fudge said. "Now, if you please." Again he beckoned her and Lucius to him.

Lucius took three smooth steps and stood beside the Minister; Hermione had to forcibly remind her muscles that they were supposed to respond to the signals her brain was sending. Walk, she told herself absurdly. One foot forward, and then the other. Finally she moved, though her motions were stiff and wooden. What seemed like an hour later, she was standing next to Lucius and in front of Fudge. She looked up at Lucius' face, but he kept his gaze stonily set on the Minister, and she could glean nothing from his expression.

"Hold up your right hands, please."

They obeyed.

"What you are about to enter into is a binding legal contract. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Lucius replied.

Hermione swallowed once and parroted his response.

"It is hereby declared that, barring any mental illness, serious injury, or death, the two of you will marry within one year of today's date, the nineteenth of September, two thousand and one. Do you agree?"

Again, they both answered in the affirmative.

"Failure to uphold this contract is punishable by no less than one year in Azkaban prison. The Minister of Magic is the only official who can release you from these vows. Do you understand?"

Hermione's heart leapt, because she knew that Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban for his crimes as a Death Eater, and she knew that it must have been a horrifying experience for him. Was he really willing to enter into this contract, when the penalty for breaking it was to return to that place? She looked up at his face once again, and it was still without expression, but his jaw seemed to be set more firmly than it had been before. "Yes," he answered, and so did she.

Fudge threw his hands in the air and grinned as he exclaimed, "Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials! Now I must ask you to leave, I've got appointments for the next ten years of my life."

Mister Malfoy and Hermione exited the Ministry in complete silence: Lucius because he had nothing to say, and Hermione because she was too dumbfounded to speak. Draco and Ron had left without another word, and Hermione was unspeakably grateful for that, because she did not think she could stand the sound of their nattering on top of the inefficient whirring of her own mind.

They stopped once they had reached the street, and Hermione looked up at Lucius, wanting to ask him why he had done it but utterly certain that she was not ready to hear the answer. So instead, she offered numbly, "We're engaged."

He merely nodded. "That we are."

"You could smile, you know, if you're at all happy about it," she told him, a trifle testily.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, for a moment, before returning to their at-rest position, but nothing else of his expression was touched by it.

Hermione frowned. "I suppose that will have to do," she said uncertainly. And, too disoriented by the day's events to realize she was being impolite, she turned and walked away. She left her fiancé behind her, thinking to herself, _It's only a quarter to nine in the morning._


	10. Telling the Potters

The next day marked Harry's and Ginny's return from Ireland. Hermione had spent the intervening hours pretending that the episode at the Ministry had never happened, because every time her mind ventured even marginally into Lucius Malfoy territory she felt like it was literally going to shut down on her. She therefore went about her business as though nothing had changed while she awaited her friends' scheduled arrival.

Right on time, Ginny's cheerful knock sounded on her door. She eagerly walked over to open it, greeted by the sight of her two closest friends, who looked every bit as happy to see her as she was to see them. "Hello!" Ginny said, hugging Hermione tightly (or as tightly as she could, being six months pregnant) for a long time before stepping into the flat. Harry embraced his friend for a shorter period of time but granted her a kiss on the cheek, and in the next moment they were all in the living room – Harry and Ginny side by side on the couch, and Hermione on her reading chair.

"What did you bring me?" Hermione cheekily asked.

"To hell with souvenirs!" Ginny indignantly cried. "It was your birthday yesterday, you twat!" Hermione and Ginny had the kind of relationship where they could call each other names (all in affectionate teasing, of course) and not take offense. "Do you really think I'm going to sit here oohing and aahing over snow globes with you when you're _engaged_ and I don't even know to whom?"

Hermione could feel her brain hitting that wall with which she had grown so familiar over the previous thirty or so hours – she could say the name "Lucius Malfoy" silently to herself, but that was about as far as she could go. "Right," she hesitantly acknowledged, "that."

Ginny's smile fell from her face and she and Harry clasped hands. "So it's Draco, then," she said, looking on her friend with sadness and sympathy.

Hermione sucked her lips in, failing to meet either Harry's or Ginny's eyes, and shook her head. "No."

Her guests each adopted a look of confusion and looked at the other, but of course neither learned anything from the exchange. Harry turned back to Hermione. "So you somehow convinced Ron not to tell everyone he's ever met the moment it happened?"

"Miraculous," Ginny admired, the grin having found its way back onto her face. "So we're going to be sisters?"

Hermione shook her head again. "It's not Ron, either."

Ginny's expression was now one of sheer outrage. "Not Goyle!"

Again, she signaled in the negative.

"Blaise Zabini?" Harry guessed.

Still, she only granted them with the same gesture.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed; pregnancy had shortened her normally liberal patience. "Spit it out!"

Taking a deep breath, Hermione raised her eyes to Ginny's, cast them momentarily to Harry's, and then brought them back to the redhead. She answered them calmly. "Lucius Malfoy."

It was as though someone had hit the pause button inside Hermione's apartment. Harry and Ginny were utterly frozen; not by expression or movement did they betray that they had heard her. After several excessively slow moments of silence permeating the air, Ginny finally spoke. "I missed something."

Hermione shrugged her shoulders and gestured helplessly, communicating that she had no light to shed on the subject. "So did I!" she replied. "I never saw it coming. I'm still not sure it actually happened."

"He desires you," Harry said, his eyes slowly clouding with anger at Mister Malfoy and concern for his friend. "He wants to acquire you, make you another one of his prized possessions."

At that, Hermione shook her head. "He's really not like that," she defended him. "Not anymore."

Harry scoffed. "Did he spin you one of those 'I'm a changed man' stories?" he asked, his voice absolutely soaked in cynicism.

"I believe he has changed," Hermione softly maintained. "When Voldemort planned to kill Draco to punish him, he realized that he was on the wrong side." Harry, though silent, remained very visibly unconvinced, and Hermione blushed before anxiously asserting, "If you had been there when he said it, you'd believe it, too."

"Even if he _has_ somehow revised his entire philosophy," Harry said, "he's still a complete snob, Hermione! He's spent his whole life looking down on people, for one reason or another, and there's no reason he would stop now!"

"He's been nice to me," Hermione weakly countered. "And even if he hasn't changed, Harry, I'm still engaged to him. It's done. What good is this debate really going to do?"

Harry softened at that, but continued to press his point. "I just don't want you to go into this thinking he's someone he's not. If he's still the man he's always been, I want you to be prepared for that."

It was then that Ginny took back control of the conversation. "Did you see him at all, after the time we know about?" she asked, gesturing to herself and her husband.

"Yes," Hermione answered, nodding, "a few times."

"Where and how?" Ginny pried, getting right down to business.

"I accidentally Apparated onto his property while running from Draco," Hermione began to summarize, "and he invited me to walk with him around the garden. He asked me in for tea the time after that, and while you two were on holiday he sent me an invitation to a party at his house."

"A party?" Ginny repeated, a little puzzled.

"Yes. The Ministry wanted him to host a gathering for single witches and wizards around his age, hoping that matching older purebloods and non-purebloods would encourage people closer to our age to follow suit without so much complaint."

Ginny and Harry were still obviously confused, and Ginny asked, "Was there someone at the party he had in mind for you?"

"No," Hermione answered, "in fact, he told everyone there that I was spoken for."

In response to that bit of intelligence, Ginny began to study her friend with noticeably more focus. "Why?"

"He said that no one there was suited to me."

Their eyes narrowed, and just as Harry leaned against the back of the couch and placed his hand over his eyes, understanding dawned on Ginny's face and she began to laugh. "Oh, Hermione," she chided. There were small amounts of pity and condescension in her voice, but they were not enough to give Hermione any real offense. "You really didn't see this coming?"

"No," Hermione said, her brow furrowed in consternation. "Why should I have?"

Ginny scoffed in disbelief and laughed even harder as she looked at Harry, whose face was still hidden in his hands and who only shook his head as he listened to the two women converse. "What Mister Malfoy meant to say," she told her friend, "was that no one there was good enough for you."

Hermione, still failing to comprehend what the other two grasped so fully, merely said, "Alright..." and waited to be enlightened.

"Don't you see? He wanted you for himself!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"He invited you to a matchmaking party and then made sure you wouldn't match up with anyone!" Ginny cried.

"He was just doing me a favor!" Hermione argued.

Ginny closed her eyes, shook her head, and sighed heavily. "Hermione," she began, her tone commanding her friend's full attention, " _think._ Think really hard about everything he's done, and while you're at it, think back on some of the things I'm sure he's said to you when you obviously weren't paying attention."

Appropriately chastised, Hermione complied, casting her eyes to the carpet so she wouldn't be distracted by her friend's eyes on her. She supposed, now that she thought of it, he had been a little insistent when telling her she should walk the garden, and he had spoken very freely with her about some things that must have been difficult to discuss... He had been terribly pleasant during their tea and brandy, even serving her himself, and had seemed to take a rather keen interest in her marriage prospects... He had invited her to a party she really had no business attending, allegedly for no other reason than the pleasure of her company... He had spread the word that she was off limits and then monopolized her for most of the evening (except for leaving her with a small group comprised entirely of women), seated her right next to him, asked her to dance, walked her to the door, kissed her hand...

All of that could be explained away by courtesy or coincidence, though Hermione was sensing that particular argument beginning to crumble. Reluctantly, she tried to remember particular things he had said that she might have overlooked or dismissed.

I'd like to think I have a bit more self-control than the average twenty-one-year-old male. He hadn't informed her that he was not even tempted to lay his hands on her, but had rather assured her that he was able to control himself.

 _Is there not a single pureblood you would consider to be a suitable match for you?_ Surely he hadn't been subtly hinting at himself...

 _Only if you haven't found a pureblood you can tolerate before then._ No, surely not...

_The only way I will find this accursed party even remotely bearable is if you attend..._

_You are the most attractive woman here..._

_You look stunning. ___

__A look of horror crawled onto Hermione's face. "Oh, no," she mumbled, looking up into Ginny's sympathetic eyes with utter dismay in her own. "Oh, _no!_ " she said again, plunging her face into her hands. _You look stunning._ "Oh, my god!" she moaned, her voice muffled by her fingers._ _

__"Are you alright, sweetheart?" Ginny asked, reaching over to place a hand on her friend's knee._ _

__"I am such a fool!" Hermione cried, hastily jumping to her feet and beginning to pace. "A bumbling, insensible fool! It was so obvious! How could I have missed it?"_ _

__Ginny, unsure of anything she could say that would be at all helpful or comforting, reached into her bag and withdrew an object she then offered to the distressed Hermione. "I brought you a snow globe..."_ _


	11. Sorting Out the Details

Hermione's chin rested on her hands, which were folded on top of each other on her mantle, with her face so close to the snow globe perched there that its outer edges extended beyond her peripheral vision. This suited Hermione just fine, as for the moment she wanted to see and think of nothing more significant than the cheaply-painted Leprechaun grinning somewhat maniacally atop a pot of gold, surrounded by falling green glitter, shamrocks, and gold coins. This tacky souvenir was just the sort of gaudy thing that she and Ginny found endlessly amusing; the Muggle interpretation of the mischievous creatures was that they measured about three feet high, wore green suits and pilgrim-like hats, and had a greedy obsession with gold, which they stored in pots that looked suspiciously like cauldrons and could be found at the end of a rainbow. This couldn't be more off the mark, as Leprechauns were in fact about six inches tall, wore clothes made of leaves, and placed no value on actual gold whatsoever but entertained themselves enormously by putting counterfeited gold into people's possession. The discrepancy between the actual Leprechaun and the one sitting before Hermione's nose had diverted her just enough in the ten or fifteen minutes since Harry and Ginny had gone to keep thoughts of one Lucius Malfoy, her fiancé, on the outer edges of her mind. Still, they pressed, gently but persistently, against her brain.

Releasing a sigh, she said to herself, _When the last piece of glitter hits the bottom, I'll owl him._ But the last piece of glitter fell, and she turned the globe over again.

How could she have been so oblivious? Harry and Ginny had seen it without even witnessing it! Hearing only her casual and relatively vague account of events, they had both understood what she, with her complete and direct involvement, had not even begun to suspect. Lucius fancied her. He had been pursuing her, in his way, for some time. Perhaps all along.

 _Cleverest witch of my age, indeed,_ she scoffed at herself. _I can't even tell when a man is flirting with me unless he's got his tongue down my throat or his hand up my blouse._

Resolutely stepping away from her mantle and the comfort of the distracting snow globe, she walked across the room to her small desk, in which she stored her ink and parchment. Before she could sit down to write him a letter, however, she decided that she was not up to a trip to the Owl Post Office today. In fact, she was not sure she was up to much of anything beyond ice cream and flannel pajama pants, but that was not a luxury she felt she could grant herself. It had been a full day and over half of another since she had departed Lucius' company (rather rudely, she now realized), and although she would have loved nothing more than to avoid the necessary conversation for at least a few days more, she had the sense to know that time has a way of making awkward situations even more so.

On the other hand, she also felt that turning up on his property uninvited for a third time would be especially inappropriate now that things were so… well, whatever they were between them.

Not for the first time, Hermione kicked herself for not buying an owl of her own, even though she found nothing lovable in them and she knew she would have detested cleaning out its cage every day.

Mentally exhausted from the entire ordeal of finding herself engaged to someone she had only just realized was attracted to her and not knowing how to proceed from there, Hermione was about ready to dive back into the swirling abyss of her snow globe when she heard three rather loud raps on her door, arriving in rhythmic yet unhurried succession.

Mildly perplexed by the unfamiliar knock, Hermione approached the door with a slightly furrowed brow, which shot up immediately when she looked through her peephole to see none other than the source of her emotional turbulence. The one and only Lucius Malfoy was on her front step in his normal grand attire, looking wholly unperturbed to be standing on a Muggle street.

Her heart promptly began pounding out the percussion to "Paradise City" while her stomach did violent somersaults in her abdomen, and she was quite exasperated with herself when she realized that her bloody palms were sweating. Turning from the door for a moment, she wiped them agitatedly on her jeans and whispered to herself, "For god's sake, get a grip! He's just a man, like any other." One, two, three deep breaths later, she turned around and opened the door.

"Mister Malfoy," she greeted him with what she hoped was a tone of casual surprise and a calm, collected smile.

She must have failed, because his brows drew together at the sight of her. "Miss Granger, are you quite all right? You're very flushed."

She could feel the heat of even more blood rushing to her cheeks in embarrassment, but she did her best to shrug it off. "I'm fine, it's just a little warm in here," she said. Then, noticing a man across the street looking at him rather oddly, she opened her door all the way and stood aside. "Come in," she offered.

He accepted her invitation, crossing her threshold with none of the urgency she felt about getting him out of sight from her Muggle neighbors. She closed the door as soon as he was clear of it.

He strode with the same leisurely pace into the middle of her living room, while she (for reasons unknown to her) remained in the foyer with her back against the door. It was several long moments before she shook herself free of her shock and said, "I'm sorry, can I take your cloak?"

"I can't stay long," was his reply. "I have some business to attend to regarding my estate. But I thought that we should talk. And I thought, under the circumstances... the sooner, the better."

Hermione experienced some relief that she did not have to be the one to say it, but her pulse quickened again at the idea that the conversation she had been dreading was now upon her. Still, she did her best to participate in it. "Yes, I think so too," she said, wandering sheepishly into his vicinity, though still maintaining an obvious distance from him. "I was actually just about to send you an owl."

"Very well, then," he responded. "Ladies first."

 _Oh, spectacular._ Where to start? "Please have a seat," she said, gesturing to her reading chair.

He did, and she took a seat on the couch across from him.

Hermione could not think of a single thing to say. "Would you like some tea?" she asked, stalling again.

"No, thank you," he politely declined.

With that route dead-ended, still more moments of silence stretched between them. His eyes were locked on her, and although his gaze could not have been called intense by any stretch, the fact that he simply waited for her to initiate the conversation and said nothing to prod her or help her along made Hermione feel as though she was under keen scrutiny.

She still had not managed to form a cohesive sentence in her head, but she was starting to wonder if beginning a sentence regardless might not ease the flow of the rest of it. "It seems…" she began, and found that her theory did not pan out. She continued anyway, simply to fill the silence. "It seems that I have missed the point."

Lucius merely went on looking at her, displaying neither confusion nor understanding.

She tried again. "There have been certain things which entirely escaped my notice and have since been called to my attention."

While it was clear that he was listening, not by even the minutest twitch if a muscle did he betray any inner reaction to what she had said.

She was beginning to lose patience with his unresponsiveness, but the nature of their relationship was in such an upheaval that she no longer felt comfortable calling him out. So, instead, she kept trying to articulate what she herself had not quite sorted out. "I hadn't realized... I didn't understand that you were... that you thought of me as..." Now beginning to lose patience with herself, she simply started blurting out the things that Ginny had made her consider in a clumsy, stumbling mockery of speech. "Talking so much about my marriage prospects, and—you know?—and maybe flirting with me at the ball a little bit, maybe, I don't know—and-and-with the 'stunning' talk, and—"

Suddenly, Lucius' face split into a grin and he chuckled most appreciatively. Was he laughing at her? "Don't fret over it, Miss Granger," he said, amusement lingering in his voice. "Those things were not necessarily meant to be noticed. I was... testing the waters, I suppose you could say. If I had been definitively courting you, believe me, you would have noticed."

Hermione had not believed it was possible to be less informed on the elder Malfoy's intentions, but she was wrong; she was more confused than ever. Did he like her or not? Was he attracted to her or not? Was it possible that he was simply bored? Playing keep-away with Draco for some form of entertainment?

Indignation began to bubble up inside of Hermione. Her jaw clenched, she fixed her eyes on one specific spot on her wall, and her fingers were laced together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

Lucius correctly identified all of these things as bad omens for him. "Forgive me," he said, "have I offended you?"

"Offended me?" Hermione repeated in a dangerously cool tone. "Of course not. Why should I be offended simply because you thought it prudent to inform me that you fancy me enough to 'test the waters' but not quite enough to 'definitively court' me?"

"I did not know how you would react," Lucius defended himself. "I thought perhaps openly pursuing you would make you uncomfortable."

Hermione did not respond, and all her muscles remained stubbornly tensed.

"Miss Granger," Lucius began, leaning forward in his chair, "rest assured that I find you exceedingly attractive."

She did not entirely relent, but at least he now had her attention. She was listening.

"However I have changed, you cannot believe that I would ever do something I did not explicitly want to do."

That much, Hermione could believe. She took a few moments to calm her temper then nodded her acquiescence, giving him permission to continue.

He returned to his "lord of the manor" pose in his chair and carried on. "I have been thinking that it might be wise if you moved into the manor. In one of the guest rooms, of course," he hastily amended. "It would be best if we had as many opportunities as possible to get to know one another before we are married."

Hermione nodded. "I agree, but do you think my moving in is really necessary? We have a year, after all."

"A year at the absolute latest," he replied, "but I see no reason to wait that long. Do you?"

 _You mean apart from the fact that I barely know you and this is all happening so fast that I'm pretty sure even I've missed more than half of it?_ "No, I suppose not. No practical reason, anyway. How soon were you thinking?"

His answer arrived so speedily that it was clear he had already given it some thought. "Six months should be sufficient to plan a decent wedding."

She would be married in six months. She would be Mrs. Malfoy in half a year. Hermione felt the need to turn her brain off for a while coming on fairly quickly. "Six months of planning sounds a bit grand, really," she softly countered. "Surely a 'decent' wedding can be achieved in two or three months, so what's the hurry? We can put it off a little while, while we get to know each other."

It was at precisely that moment that Mister Malfoy adopted what could almost have been described as an apologetic expression. "A Malfoy wedding is a fairly grand affair," he offered as an explanation.

Of course it was. If a singles' gathering merited the treatment it had received at Malfoy Manor, to what amount of spectacle would a wedding be entitled? And virtually every member of the Wizarding world would be invited, she was sure, now that Lucius apparently did not discriminate ( _quite_ apparently, if she was any evidence). "Very well," she conceded with a sigh. She then rolled the idea of moving into the manor over in her head for a little while. She would be sad to give up her flat, as she had grown to feel very much at home there and with it came a large measure of independence. On the other hand, Lucius made a very good point when he said that they would fare best with every available opportunity to get better acquainted; and what better way was there to do that than to live with the person? The logical part of Hermione's brain also pointed out to her that she would be moving there eventually anyway; now or six months from now, what was the difference, really? The only normal objection would be that it was too soon; but they did not have a normal relationship.

Nodding to herself as she came to a decision, Hermione said, "I'll move into the manor as soon as possible. I'll have to speak to my landlord, of course."

Lucius hesitated as he seemed to consider something. "I could simply—"

"No," Hermione forcefully objected, knowing that he was referring to modifying her landlord's memory. She heartily disapproved of taking such measures unless they were absolutely necessary.

He immediately abandoned that line of discussion. "As you wish." He then stood, prompting her to do so as well, and said, "Please inform me of your plans at your earliest convenience." He walked over to her, took her hand in his, bent over it and said, "Miss Granger," before landing a kiss upon it and Disapparating without further delay.

The feel of his lips upon her skin seemed just a bit more vivid to her than it had before, but she did not bother thinking on that now. There was a pint of Rocky Road in her freezer calling her name.


	12. Telling Mum

To say that Hermione's mother had not been glad to hear of Hermione's engagement to a forty-something elitist would have been wildly understated.

Mrs. Granger had been made aware of the Preservation of Magic Act, of course, and of its implications for her daughter, but she had never been able to take it quite as seriously as she should have. Obviously, she knew that her daughter was a witch and that there was an entire world comprised of people like Hermione, a world with its own customs, currency, and government. She had understood that, as a witch under this new law, her daughter would be obligated to enter into an arranged marriage. What she had failed to understand was that compliance with the law was in no way optional. She had been quietly entertaining the delusion that if Hermione did not end up engaged to someone she loved and truly wanted to marry, she could simply opt out of the entire magical experience. It was on this point that she and Hermione were arguing as Hermione packed her bags for Wiltshire, a process that she had driven all the way to her daughter's flat to bring to a halt.

"Darling, really, I'm sure we can sort it out," she maintained. "There's no need to be so hasty. Giving up your apartment is a rather rash decision. You don't want to have to move back home with your father and me when all of this is over, do you?"

Hermione held her temper in check by breathing deeply as she continued filling her suitcase with clothes. "I've already sublet the apartment. The new tenants are moving in tomorrow. And no, we really _can't_ sort it out. I've told you, it's the law."

"I'm sure the Minister is a reasonable man," she pressed, anxiety creeping into her voice.

Hermione sighed. She had told her parents almost everything about the Wizarding world in the years since she had been admitted into Hogwarts, but she had very intentionally left out all the business about the war. She had thought that it would do nothing but cause them undue stress and make them worry for her, and so she had omitted every detail of that unpleasantness from her stories to them. And now, consequently, her mother had not even the faintest understanding of why this law had been put in place. While Hermione disagreed with it on principle, she at least understood how it would benefit the Wizarding race in the long run. Her mother had no such luxury.

"I'm sure he'd exempt you if you came back to live in the – " Hermione knew her mother had been about to say "the real world," and even though she had caught herself, Hermione was still irritated. " – the world that you were born in," she finished. "You could go to university! You would do perfectly well for yourself without magic, as a lawyer or maybe a dentist like your father and me. You could even join our practice! They can't force you to comply with their laws if you choose to not to live as one of them."

Hermione took another deep breath, trying to hold onto what little patience she had left. "Mum, I can't just _choose_ to be a Muggle, just like I didn't _choose_ to be a witch," she explained. "That is simply what I am, and as such I am subject to Wizarding law."

Mrs. Granger knew it was true, but still she tried to argue. "But he's so much older than you!"

"Wizards live longer than Muggles, remember?" she reminded her mother. "By magical standards, he's not even middle-aged."

"But you don't love him!"

She had hit upon the one subject that actually bothered Hermione. In all her life, it had never even occurred to her that she would marry someone she did not love. She was making the best of the situation, but she could not rightly say that it did not make her a little sad. Taking a moment to stem the flow of emotion before it had a chance to begin, she answered in a much subdued tone. "I like him, and I respect him. We have grown to be fairly good friends these past few weeks, and honestly, Mum, marriages have been made on a lot less." She took another restorative breath before adding, "His proposal also saved me from two much less agreeable potential fiancés. There's a lot to be thankful for."

Mrs. Granger had nothing to say to that.

Hermione abandoned her suitcase for a moment and sat down next to her mother on the bed, taking her hand in hers. She finished gently but plainly. "This is happening whether you like it or not. I know you don't believe it, but I am telling you: it can't be helped. I really need your support. If you could just find a way to take an optimistic view of this, it would be much easier for me to do the same."

Her mother took a couple of minutes to absorb everything she had said; although she had heard it all before, she had never really attempted acceptance of it. Now Hermione's refusal to consider any of her suggestions was finally convincing her of the event's inevitability. Displaying a characteristic she had passed on to her daughter, she bore up and made the best of it. "Well, is he handsome, at least?" she asked, smiling.

Hermione gratefully returned the smile and thought for a moment before replying, in a tone of barely perceptible surprise, "Yes." She had honestly never thought of Lucius in that light before, but now that she did, she realized that she did find him handsome. "Yes, I'd say he is."

"What does he look like?"

"Well," Hermione began, "he has long blonde hair and gray-blue eyes; he's, I would guess, at least four inches taller than me; and he's very… intense. Stoic, really. His expression rarely changes… I've only seen him laugh once, and as it was at my expense, I wasn't really in a frame of mind to appreciate it."

"What did you do that made him laugh?" her mother inquired.

"Oh, just stumbling over my words," Hermione answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I couldn't find the right thing to say."

Her mother made a noise of acknowledgement and then asked, "Do you think he likes you? Or is there another reason he might want to marry you?"

A small wave of mental exhaustion washed over Hermione; the feeling had become quite familiar, as it occurred any and every time she attempted an analysis of her situation or of Lucius' motives. Shaking her head, she simply replied, "To be honest, I'm not sure why he asked for me. He is not legally obligated to remarry, though the Ministry was putting some pressure on him to do so. But… yes, I think he likes me. A bit. In his way." When her mother laughed, Hermione realized how silly that had sounded and laughed back, though she attempted to defend the ambiguity of her statement. "It's hard to tell with him! He's so inexpressive."

"That can be frustrating after a while," Mrs. Granger cautioned.

"Oh, it already is," Hermione assured her. "But I can needle a response out of him when it's important. I have before."

"Don't you consider the way he does or doesn't feel about you to be important?"

Again, Hermione tiredly shook her head. "I just don't think I'm ready to know."

Accepting her answer, Hermione's mother changed the direction of the conversation. "Well," she said, "I'm still not at ease about this whole thing, but you can count on me for support, Hermione."

Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Mum." She rested her head on her mother's shoulder.

"Don't expect your father to be so understanding, though."

Hermione groaned. While her mother had initially responded to the news with an irritating lack of gravity, her father's reaction had been even worse: he hadn't said a word. Hermione suspected that he knew good and well that there was no way out for her, and that he was privately distraught by her fate. She expected quite a battle from him, when she finally cornered him into talking about it. "I'll speak to him about it later." Then, in a childlike tone she had not used in years, she said, "Will you soften him up for me?"

Mrs. Granger gently patted her daughter's head and replied, "I'll do my best, sweetheart."

An hour later, Hermione waved as her mother drove away, dropped her keys in the letterbox outside her door, and made her way back into the living room. She placed a hand on her one small suitcase, into which she had packed all of her clothes, toiletries, and books (by way of an Undetectable Extension charm, naturally), and took one last look around her apartment. She was leaving all her furniture for the new tenants, a newly married couple, for which they would pay her a little extra every month until they had paid for it entirely. She was going to miss her little one-bedroom flat. It suited her; small but not cramped, nice but not obnoxiously so. Malfoy Manor would be nothing of the sort.

Still, she was confident that she could learn to feel at home there, too - as long as Lucius permitted her to throw a little more color into the décor.

"Well," she said to herself with a sigh, "that's it, then." She Disapparated.


	13. Forgive My Bluntness

Hermione appeared a short distance away from the front doors of Malfoy Manor, about halfway between the house and the gardens. She turned her head to slowly sweep her eyes over the green, flowering hedges—a much more peaceful sight than the imposing, towering edifice of her new home. After a time, however, her neck and her pride both started objecting to her avoidance, and she faced the house head-on. Hermione very much doubted that any home in England was more intimidating, palaces and castles notwithstanding. It was the more so because she was to be its new mistress. She was not raised among this station, or any such grandeur. She was the daughter of dentists; she had no hint of aristocracy, no pedigree to speak of. She felt utterly unequal to the task of being a Malfoy.

The fact that she was indeed to become a Malfoy had still not entirely settled into her mind as reality. But few things could be more real than her suitcase, hard and heavy in her hand, and the unyielding earth beneath her feet, which just so happened to be located on Malfoy grounds.

Heaving a sigh, Hermione walked up to the steps of the manor, ascended them, and—because she did not feel quite ready to simply waltz in as if she owned the place—knocked.

After the briefest of moments, the enormous oaken door creaked open. It appeared that no one was standing there, which would not have been terribly unusual in a Wizarding house, but then Hermione looked down and saw a shy but sweet-looking house-elf. "Hello," she greeted it.

"Mistress Granger?" she—the voice was decidedly feminine—squeaked.

She hadn't even crossed the threshold, and already she was uncomfortable. "Please, call me Hermione."

"Mistress Hermione," the house-elf said, and stood aside to let her in.

Accepting that this was probably the most she could get the house-elf to budge on the subject, Hermione stepped into the house. The door closed loudly behind her.

As if on cue, Lucius appeared in the foyer. "Good afternoon, Miss Granger," he said with a bow.

Hermione, a bit annoyed by all the bowing, did not make any attempt to return an equal gesture, but simply said, "Hello."

"This is Fern," he told her, indicating the elf hovering around Hermione's knees.

At her introduction, Fern spoke. "Fern will take Mistress Hermione's things up to her room," she announced, reaching for Hermione's suitcase.

"No, really, I—" Hermione began, strongly objecting to the enslavement of house-elves in general and being waited upon by one in particular.

"Fern," Lucius said in a kind but firm tone, "Miss Granger will not require your assistance unless she calls for you."

"Yes, Master," Fern said, and scampered away, presumably to continue her daily work.

"I will show you to your room," Lucius offered.

"Thank you," Hermione said, grateful that he had dismissed Fern but still rather cranky that he had servants to dismiss.

He held out his hand for her bag, but when she assured him that it wasn't that heavy he took note of the bright agitation in her eyes and wisely made no more mention of helping her.

As they climbed the stairs, Lucius made small talk by asking if all her affairs had been set in order, if she had eaten, and what her plans were for the next few days. When all those topics had been covered, they were still not to her room.

Finally, two flights of stairs and two right turns later, they arrived at her door. Lucius opened it for her and remained where he was as she took a single step in and looked around.

There was a very large window on the far wall, but most of it was covered by a heavy, dark curtain—it could have been green or blue, Hermione wasn't sure in the dim light. The bed was large and similarly clothed with a dark, patterned comforter and matching bed curtains; the walls were papered in a vaguely floral pattern, but it was hard to tell because of the grayish, not at all floral color scheme; the furniture was all dark stained wood, probably more oak. There was a dresser, two nightstands, and a vanity with a mirror and a French-style chair. The room had a slightly musty scent about it, betraying years of disuse.

Hermione stood in the same spot, exactly one step into the room, and looked at all its furnishings without saying a word for several long, increasingly uncomfortable minutes.

Eventually, Lucius cleared his throat and said, "I realize it's a little—"

"Depressing," Hermione interrupted.

"It hasn't been occupied in years," he said by way of explanation. "Please redecorate it however you like."

Hermione nodded. "Alright." She then purposefully strode into the room, put down her suitcase, opened the window to air out the room, and pulled out her wand, looking around as though trying to decide where to start.

"I will leave you to it," Lucius said, recognizing that he was not wanted or needed at the moment, and retreated.

"Thank you," Hermione called after him, already casting spells.

 

Hermione had begun by ripping down the window and bed curtains; for some reason they depressed her most. She intended to replace them with a material similar to mosquito netting—sheer, white, and gauzy—only finer, but she would have to buy it since she did not know how to Transfigure them. Using the floral pattern of the wallpaper for inspiration, she decided to go with a roses-and-cream sort of theme. She changed the color of the paper to a very pale solid beige and applied the floral pattern to the bedspread in a warm, peachy-pink. The bed sheets matched the walls, and the dark wood was now a light natural color. She had plans to find some artwork for the walls that would pull the pink from her bed and echo it around the room.

During her exploration of her quarters, she had wandered into her bathroom (which was accessed through a door near the window) and nearly fainted with delight. She had never seen a tub so big in all her life. It looked like she could float in it and neither her head nor her feet would touch the ends. There were beautiful marble counters and enough storage space for all of her products, as well as a large window that let in lots of light but had warped glass for privacy.

At some point during her renovating rampage, Fern had come in and said, "Dinner is being served soon, Mistress. Master told Fern to ask if Mistress wanted to eat downstairs or have her food brought here."

As Hermione had been deeply engrossed at the time, all she took from that was "stop working or eat and work." So, absentmindedly, she had asked Fern to bring her dinner up and gone about her business.

When she was finally finished with all she could do from scratch, Hermione stood back and admired her handiwork, very pleased with herself. Only when she had completely descended from her decorating craze did she think to wonder what time it was and, looking at her watch, saw that it was past ten o'clock at night.

She immediately worried that she had been unforgivably rude for ignoring Lucius for so long and, too late (as was typical for her), realized that she should have dined downstairs with him. She should at least go and see him now, she thought, if only for a few minutes. But she felt so uncomfortable about being so obliviously ungracious that she was almost embarrassed to seek his company now.

Finally, Hermione decided that she was being quite silly. She couldn't stay locked in her room forever, and the longer she waited to emerge the more awkward it would be when she did. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose, and exhaled inelegantly through her mouth, her cheeks puffing out a little as she did so. She resolutely stepped in the direction of her door, but on the way she passed the mirror on her vanity and gracelessly halted to examine her reflection.

Finding herself a little worse for the wear, Hermione took a few moments to freshen herself up. She tamed her hair (which had gotten rather frizzy) back into some semblance of the smooth waves she preferred; put on a fresh shirt (a simple white tee); applied a single spritz of her favorite perfume (a very light jasmine scent); and gave her cheeks a nice pinch to bring them a small blush. Then, deeming herself attractive but natural-looking, she once again headed for her door.

The manor was always quiet, but now it lacked even the soft bustle of the house-elves; they must have already gone to bed. Hermione worried for a moment that perhaps Lucius had retired for the night, too, but somehow she sensed that he was still up and about somewhere. She ventured down the stairs to the first floor and heard the crackle of a fire coming from the direction of the study. Her footsteps barely made a sound as she padded across the carpeted floor, and even when she reached the doorway and saw Lucius with his back to her, sitting in his chair before the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand, he did not detect her presence. Granting herself only one moment to observe him unnoticed, she gently knocked on the doorjamb.

Lucius quickly turned his head, saw her, and began to get up from his chair. "Miss Granger," he said as he did so.

"Oh, no, you don't have to get up—" Hermione began, but it was too late. He had already risen and was halfway across the room.

He stopped about four feet away from her and, apparently having decided that they had passed the "needlessly formal" stage of their courtship, didn't bow. This pleased Hermione, since she had always found it slightly awkward. "I was just having a nightcap. Would you care to join me?"

"Yes, please," she replied, relief loosening apprehension's tight grip on her lungs.

"Please do have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair next to his. "I will pour you a glass."

As he set about getting her drink, Hermione settled into the chair he had offered, sighing contentedly as the heat from the fire warmed her legs. She absently thought to herself that it would probably take her a long time to get used to the manor's slight chill.

In less than a minute, Lucius had put a glass in her hand and sat back down next to her. She noticed that he had watered her drink down a bit and smiled before taking a careful sip. He undoubtedly remembered the way she had reacted to his brandy the last time and had taken care to prevent a recurrence. Even with his thoughtful ministration, the drink put a slight glaze over her eyes almost immediately.

"How is your room coming along?" he politely inquired.

Hermione nodded and said, "Oh, it's looking really lovely. I'm almost finished. There are just a few things I can't properly transfigure and I'll have to buy new."

"When you do, tell the shopkeeper to put it down under my name. I have accounts at nearly all the shops at Diagon Alley, as well as some in Paris. Spare no expense."

He didn't say it with intentional arrogance, but simply stated it as the fact it was; still, he utterly failed to appreciate how exorbitant it sounded. Hermione laughed quietly at his particular brand of ignorance and thought to herself that she would have to do her best to bring him down to Earth a bit. It also occurred to her that, even for a Malfoy, "spare no expense" seemed a little extravagant for someone who had just moved into his house, betrothed or not. Not wanting to jump to conclusions, she decided to ask her question jokingly. "Are you trying to buy my affections?" she asked with a smile.

He blinked solemnly at her, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "No," he calmly replied. "I am trying to buy you the things you want."

"And you're hoping that giving me the things I want will prompt some sort of fondness?" she said, still joking—kind of.

"No," he answered, still calm and still almost smiling. "I am hoping that having the things you want will make you feel comfortable here. It is, after all, your home now."

Hermione studied his face for a long moment, decided he was telling the truth, and expelled a soft, "Mmm," by way of acknowledgement as she let go of his gaze and took another sip of brandy.

They passed perhaps five minutes in companionable silence, not quite enough at ease to look at each other at any point during it, but content nonetheless, before Lucius said: "Miss Granger?"

"Hmm?" she said, looking at him but finding his gaze lowered.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but..." Here he trailed off, appearing to study his glass with uncommon single-mindedness while in actuality he was struggling to find a polite and tactful way to phrase his question. At last, he gave up on delicacy. "Forgive my bluntness, Miss Granger, but are you a virgin?"

Hermione felt a small amount of heat rushing to her cheeks, but was fairly confident that her blush was not obvious. "You were there when Ron... when he said..."

"I thought perhaps he was lying," Lucius explained. "He lied a great deal that morning."

She and Lucius had only been friends (for lack of a better word, because Hermione could attest to the fact that there wasn't one) for a few weeks, and discussing such things with him felt wildly inappropriate, especially given the age difference. But as her fiancé she felt he had the right to know. "No," she demurely replied, "that part was true." She lifted her own glass to her lips to take another sip. He nodded, but did not speak; after a rather long moment, she asked: "Does that disappoint you?"

His eyebrows rose very slightly as he signaled in the negative. "No. No, not at all. I have no opinion on the subject. I only asked so that I would know how to behave on our wedding night."

Now, Hermione was positive that her entire face—and perhaps even her neck and the upper part of her chest—had flushed scarlet. Lowering her head in an attempt to make it less obvious, she offered merely a timid, "Oh," in acknowledgement.

Despite her efforts to disguise it, Lucius did notice her discomfiture and, ever the gentleman, was quick to try to relieve her of it. "If you would prefer not to discuss such matters, I will happily refrain from introducing them."

"No," she answered, shaking her head and meeting his eyes again, "it's not that. It was unexpected, that's all. I actually think it would be better if we could talk openly about these things. That is," she added, "within the boundaries of what is appropriate."

Lucius nodded, but an amused smirk crawled onto his face. "That is adequately vague, Miss Granger. Will you please clarify for me what is appropriate?"

Her responding laugh was inspired by genuine amusement, but aided by nerves. "I don't know," she said, still chuckling.

"Well, would it be appropriate for me to ask you how many men there have been?"

She nodded slowly, mulling it over in her head. "Yes, that would be appropriate." She had the confidence to look him in the eye as she gave her reply, but it was in no way a boast. "Three."

He nodded his acceptance of her answer and casually took another sip of brandy.

She now felt comfortable enough to ask her own question, though she delivered it slowly, unsure how to put it together. "Have you... been with anyone... recently?"

"You mean since my wife?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "No," he replied, placing his glass on the table next to his chair. He then leaned back and stretched his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles, before folding his hands across his abdomen. He considered for a moment before explaining the reason. "It didn't seem important."

"Hmm," she offered in acknowledgement. She made the rest of her inquiries in a very direct manner, but cushioned them by speaking in a soft voice. "Was there anyone before her?"

He met her eyes again. "Yes. My father was rather old-fashioned. He took me to a brothel when I was seventeen to have my first woman. There was no one else until I got married."

"And while you were married?"

Eye contact had already been established between them, but now their gazes were rigidly locked on one another. This was perhaps as fearlessly honest as they had ever been with each other, and the significance of that was not lost on either of them. "Yes," he softly confessed, and there was a long interim of loaded silence before he continued. "Several. Narcissa and I..." he trailed off again. Hermione had never seen Lucius struggle with his words before, and it was rather refreshing. "Ours was a marriage of convenience," he tried to explain. "We were each expected by our families and peers to marry a fellow pureblood; indeed, neither of us would have considered anything else—at the time," he hastily amended, recalling to whom he was speaking.

"Mm-hmm," Hermione acknowledged sardonically, giving him a particularly stern look.

He chose to ignore this and moved on. "To be honest, we barely knew each other. Our parents arranged the match. There was no one else in whom I was interested and she came from a very noble family; I saw no reason to object."

"Go on," Hermione prodded.

"Considering how poorly we were acquainted, I assumed that it would be difficult and awkward at first. I expected it to get better. But it didn't." He sighed heavily then and adjusted his position in the chair, sinking even lower until he appeared almost casual. "I had not been particularly excited to marry her, but I had not minded it; I began to suspect that she minded it very much. No matter how I tried to engage her, she resisted. She offered only the necessary responses, and always upon my initiation." His eyes dimmed somewhat as he sank into recollection. "It was a cold house," he remembered solemnly. "Apart from our political leanings, we had nothing in common until Draco. And even he didn't bring us closer together. I spent as much time away as possible, allegedly in the service of the Dark Lord. Often times that was the case, but equally as often I was... elsewhere."

Hermione spent several moments absorbing this information, unsure of what to feel about it. Should she be outraged on behalf of Narcissa? Based on what he had told her, she could understand why he had done it, but still... Would he be unfaithful to her, too? She felt a little silly for caring, seeing as theirs would be no more a marriage of love than his previous one. Nonetheless, she felt a pang of jealousy in her chest (however impractical) at the thought of Lucius continuing such behavior. The brandy had loosened her tongue. She asked him outright: "Do you intend to be unfaithful to me, as well?"

"No!" he responded, brows slightly furrowed. Then he seemed to realize how absurd it was of him to take offense, and continued more softly. "Years of neglect drove me to infidelity with Narcissa. We've been engaged barely more than a month and already you've proven yourself a much more engaging companion. I have reason to believe that our marriage will be very... pleasant."

He locked eyes with her at the end of the sentence, and while he did not say it with any perceptible note of innuendo and his gaze did not betray any impure thoughts, something about the way the word sounded in his mouth—the graceful fall of the _p_ and the _l_ , the smooth glide of the _s_ , the rumbling hum of the _n_ , and the soft click that his tongue made behind his teeth on the _t_ —sent a warm shiver up the back of Hermione's neck. Her pulse quickened, her heart in her throat, but she merely nodded and said, "Mm-hmm," and took another sip of her drink, her eyes landing anywhere but on him.

"Would you like there to be a clause in our marriage contract permitting lovers?" he suddenly asked. "I would allow you that freedom, if you desired it."

"No," she immediately and adamantly replied, coughing delicately on the too-large swallow of brandy. She recovered quickly and continued, "I would only consider that kind of arrangement if you and I absolutely couldn't stand one another."

He chuckled then; it was the first time Hermione had ever seen him smile in a way that actually reached his eyes, which were twinkling and creased at the outer corners. "I am glad that that is not the case," he declared.

"So am I," she said. Then her mouth, aided considerably by alcohol, ran away with her again. "Mister Malfoy, I'm afraid I must confess: I am having considerable trouble reconciling this new you with the old one."

He chuckled again, but just one brief exhalation, not quite a laugh. "I believe that the most effective way to break a bad habit and create a good one is to consciously behave in the way one wants to become. It may feel awkward and insincere at the start, but over time you get used to it, and it begins to feel natural."

"And which habit, exactly, are you trying to change?"

"There are many, Miss Granger, far too many to list. But I suppose the easiest, broadest answer would be: I just don't want to be a swine anymore."

At this, Hermione laughed outright, thoroughly entertained by Lucius Malfoy referring to himself in such a derogatory manner. When she was through, she studied him for a moment and granted him an utterly suspicious sidelong glance, though she was still smiling.

He returned her expression with his own amused smirk. "You distrust me," he observed.

"Yes," she replied, her expression unchanged.

He merely shrugged, still smirking. "I can't say I blame you."


	14. Hair of the Dog

They fell back into a comfortable silence, each acclimating themselves with the other's presence and general proximity while feeling no burden of conversation. About half an hour later, Hermione began to feel the effects of four hours' work and a glass of brandy. Her limbs felt warm and heavy and her eyelids began to droop. "I'm beat," she said.

"Perhaps you should go to bed," he suggested.

She nodded sleepily. "I think I will," she said, and sat her glass down on the table between their two chairs and began to stand.

"I'll walk you up," he offered, and she was too tired to bother with the whole "You don't have to," "I insist" conversation, so she let him.

The journey upstairs was a great deal less energetic than their first; Hermione moved slowly and heavily in her fatigue and Lucius gallantly matched her pace. When they reached her door, Hermione turned and said, "Goodnight, Mister Malfoy," granting him a small smile though she was so tired that her eyes were in danger of falling completely closed.

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," he answered, then quite suddenly leaned in and pecked her neatly on the cheek. Just as quickly, he backed away.

It took Hermione aback; his face had never been that close to hers before, ever, and it was a rather odd move for someone who was always so, for lack of a better word, smooth. The surprise combined with the sluggishness of her mind made it so she could think of nothing to say and merely stood there staring at him, eyebrows slightly raised.

He looked a little surprised, himself, actually; she thought his eyes were just a little wider than usual. Before she could decide, he turned on his heel and strode away from her, disappearing down the hall.

She remained in that spot for several moments, unable to force the gears of her mind to turn, before finally giving up and retreating into her room. As the door clicked shut behind her, she clumsily peeled off her jeans and collapsed onto the bed, only summoning the energy to crawl under the covers when she got cold some minutes later. She got through roughly one-third of a thought about Lucius' peculiar goodnight before she slipped into unconsciousness.

 

It was well after midnight when Severus Snape received an urgent owl from Lucius Malfoy. It read:

_I need to talk to you. Come over **now.**_

Severus knew within the first three words that something was amiss; Lucius' normal way of speaking and writing was much more formal. A sloppy, uneven scrawl had also replaced his usually elegant penmanship, and the word "now" was underlined three times. Trusting that his friend's life was likely not in immediate danger, Severus unhurriedly fastened his robes and turned off all the lights in his house before Disapparating, wondering what could possibly be so important at such a late hour and feeling quite certain that he would much rather not be involved in whatever it was.

The doors of Malfoy Manor recognized him and obligingly swung open as he approached; he was "on the list," one could say. He followed the sound of glass clinking and several thuds of unknown objects meeting hard wood in the direction of the study, and as he neared he also heard Lucius grumbling angrily to himself. Smirking, he strode in to find his friend wrestling with something in his home bar. Lucius took no notice of him, so he made his presence known with a firm, "Ahem."

Lucius swung around, looking a touch unsteady on his feet, and fuzzily met his gaze. "Took you bloody long enough," he said. In one hand he held a half-empty bottle of expensive Scotch; in the other, the cork.

Severus grasped the situation immediately and attempted to politely intervene. "I think you've had enough," he mildly observed.

"You are wrong," Lucius said, turning his back once again and refilling his glass. "I am not nearly drunk enough to cope with what just happened."

"What just happened?" Severus asked, concern only just beginning to seep in.

Lucius sighed heavily, popped the cork back in the bottle with a soft squeak, and turned to face his former brother-in-arms. "We had a perfectly lovely chat," he began with the bitter tones of one who has experienced the complete ruination of something previously pleasant. "Honest, straightforward, even intimate. We discussed our sexual histories, for god's sake! Mine was in a bit more detail, but nonetheless—"

"Well, I would imagine yours is a great deal more extensive, is it not?" Severus interrupted sardonically with a twisty, one-cornered smile.

Lucius, however intoxicated, picked up on the satirical nature of the comment, and straightened his spine. "Are you calling me a rake?" he asked, affronted.

"Unless you're referring to the gardening tool, I must admit a fair bit of confusion," the Potions master said, "because I was not aware that we were in the seventeenth century, when that word was last used." His smile was now very obviously one of amusement. "I'm calling you a slut."

"Shut up, Severus," Lucius said impatiently, waving him off with one hand. "No one likes a clever bastard. _Anyway_ ," he continued, pointedly bringing the conversation back on topic, "she said she was tired so I saw her to her room, we said goodnight, and then I—" He had quite suddenly broken off his speech and was now staring into space with a distressed, almost haunted, expression. He recklessly tossed back a large portion of Scotch, swallowing audibly, and said, "I kissed her on the cheek."

Severus narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, eyeing his friend in apparent befuddlement. "That's..." he began, unsure of what it was, exactly, and finally ended with, "...an interesting choice."

"I've never heard you so polite," Lucius sarcastically observed.

"You're right," Severus acknowledged, and immediately corrected himself. "That was stupid."

"I should have just kissed her on the hand again, like I've been doing," the elder Malfoy lamented. "I should have—"

"You should have ravished her on the spot," Severus told him.

"Oh, like you would know," Lucius bitterly threw at him, draining the last remaining dregs in his glass. Severus only laughed, taking the ribbing in good grace.

As Lucius picked up the bottle to refill his glass for the third or thirteenth time, Severus quickly crossed the room and neatly slipped it from his grasp. "You're overreacting, Lucius."

"Oh, but it was awkward," he said, pacing three short steps in either direction and cradling his forehead in his hand. "She thought it was awkward. I know she did."

"You probably just surprised her," Severus tried to assure him.

"She makes me so... _silly!_ " Lucius said. He made a grab for the bottle, but Severus deftly withdrew it from his reach. "Like a giddy schoolboy with a crush. I wanted to do something suave and charming, but part of me also wanted to throw her on the floor and give her a very nasty rug burn, and my brain just—" here he gestured wildly with his free hand and his face screwed up into a comically frustrated expression "—short-circuited, and I ended up kissing her on the bloody, sodding cheek!"

The situation was dire, indeed, but Severus had not yet given up on diffusing his friend's panic. "I'm sure she thought it was very..." he began; but again, he knew not what it was, and so he trailed off.

"What?" Lucius challenged, turning all his attention on his oldest friend and even taking a step in his direction. "Very what, Severus? _Cute?_ "

Severus could only grimace in pained sympathy as a response. He made no attempt to fight as Lucius took back the Scotch.

 

When she awoke, she felt very well rested. She didn't think she'd ever slept in a more comfortable bed, which was all the more impressive for it obviously being an antique. Sunlight flooded the room through the large window, for the moment unimpeded by curtains, and Hermione enjoyed the first few minutes of her morning in her lovely, warm bed.

She snapped to attention, however, when she suddenly remembered Lucius' odd behavior from the night before. Still pulling herself from the thick fog of sleep, she wondered for a moment if it had been a dream; but the memory carried no hint of the weird or nonsensical, the way her dreams normally did. He had, in fact, kissed her on the cheek, then—with no trace whatsoever of his usual debonair manner—and promptly made himself scarce.

Had he been embarrassed, she wondered? It hadn't appeared as though he meant to do it. All of his motions and mannerisms were measured, deliberate; but when he kissed her, he had leaned in rather suddenly, almost jerking towards her, and the kiss itself had barely lasted a tenth of a second. Then, afterwards, he had given her that odd look—surprised, flustered?—and immediately left.

She should have played it off, she now realized with some chagrin; she should have made it seem like she thought nothing of it, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. Instead she had frozen and gaped at him like he was some sort of zoo animal, and now all the ease and familiarity they had built up was surely ruined.

 _Well_ , she said to herself with no small measure of confidence, _not necessarily._ She would make it seem normal now, she decided, getting out of bed and walking to her suitcase, which she had yet to unpack. She unzipped it and thrust her arm in up to her armpit, groping for her clothes. She came away with a dark pair of jeans and a green sweater—the same one she had worn on her birthday. Touching herself up with a few beauty charms she had picked up over the years (a waterless shower, basically), she slipped into a pair of brown flats and decided what she would do when she encountered Mister Malfoy: she would confidently walk up to him, smiling, say, "Good morning," and kiss _him_ on the cheek. He had set the standard, as it were—albeit unintentionally—and she would meet it.

As she descended the stairs to the first floor, the smell of breakfast wafted up to her and her stomach obediently grumbled. She definitely smelled bacon, she thought, and eggs—and coffee! Her step lightened with pleasure at the scent, and she wandered into the breakfast room (yes, Malfoy Manor had a room specifically for breakfast).

He was seated at the head of the table, naturally, with his back to her, facing the large window, which afforded a spectacular view of the gardens and the hills beyond. She resolutely walked up to his left side and said, "Good morni—oh!"

She was brought up short before she could kiss him by the mere sight of him; his skin was sallow and pale and he had horrible dark circles under his eyes, which squinted against the morning light underneath brows furrowed in obvious and acute discomfort.

She looked on him with surprise and concern. "You look awful!"

"Not half as awful as I feel," he assured her in a tired, gravelly voice.

"Are you all right?" she asked, sitting down next to him and studying his face for signs of an imminent worsening of his condition—fainting, vomiting, or something of the like.

"I will live," he said, reaching for his half-empty glass of water and sipping carefully. "Fern is making me something for it as we speak."

Hermione was about to ask what was wrong with him when the door to the kitchen opened and a tray entered the room—it was, of course, being carried, but Fern was so small that Hermione could not see her over the table. A small, brownish hand slid the tray onto the table and Fern's head bobbed back into the kitchen, presumably to continue cooking.

When Lucius lifted the coffee pot from the tray, Hermione saw what was behind it. "Is that a Bloody Mary?"

"Mmph," he said, pouring them each a cup.

"You're hung over?" she asked incredulously.

"Mm-hmm." He slid the cream and sugar over to her without taking any for himself, and then proceeded to ignore his coffee and gulped down about one-fourth of his remedy.

Hermione set about making her coffee suitable to drink, being careful not to clink her spoon too loudly against the cup, and watched Lucius. He looked positively dreadful. "You didn't seem drunk when I left you," she observed.

"I didn't stop drinking," he ruefully informed her. "Believe me, I wish I had." Then, in a move quite uncharacteristic of him, he folded his arms on the table and laid down his head, his long, white-blond hair falling over his shoulder.

"Do you, um... do this often?" she carefully inquired. Quite simply, she wanted to know if she was marrying a raging alcoholic.

"No," he answered, his voice muffled by his arms. After a moment, he moaned in obvious pain.

Hermione clicked her tongue once and, without thinking, reached over and began gently petting the back of his head. Despite her uptight, goody two-shoes reputation, she had been where he now was, and she sympathized with him heavily. "Aren't there potions for hangovers?" she asked.

"There are," he said, and then turned his head towards her so that he could speak unhindered by his robes. His eyes remained closed, blocking out the light. "I've tried them all. None of them works so well as a Bloody Mary."

"Hair of the dog that bit you?" she said with a smile, still stroking his hair.

"Mm-hmm," he answered, and fell silent, allowing himself to be soothed by her soft caresses.

A few moments later, Fern reentered carrying another tray that looked much too large for such a small thing to carry, but she somehow managed it with ease. She set in front of each of them a plate of eggs, bacon, and strawberries, and Hermione said, "Thank you, Fern."

The elf froze, her big, round eyes fixed on her new mistress in mild disbelief. "Y-you're welcome," she finally responded uncertainly, and scampered back into the kitchen.

Lucius neglected to raise his head from the table and it appeared he had no interest in the food. "You should eat," Hermione told him, "but skip the coffee. The caffeine will only dehydrate you even more."

"I will never eat again," he vowed, thoroughly morose in his misery.

"Just a few bites," she coaxed, gently pushing against his arm, "and the rest of your Bloody Mary. Then it's back to bed with you."

He remained stubbornly still and silent, his breathing the only sound he made.

"If you think I'm above pretending your fork is an airplane," she warned, "you are gravely mistaken."

He opened one eye and looked at her, clearly trying to decide whether he thought she'd actually do it.

She did not back down. "Or would you prefer a train?"

He still only looked at her, challenging, and did not move.

Shaking her head in mock resignation, Hermione reached for his fork and piled eggs on top of it.

"Alright," he grudgingly conceded, straightening and reaching for the fork himself. He ate all of his eggs and downed most of his Bloody Mary, sat back with his eyes closed for a few minutes, then drank the rest.

Hermione was skimming the Daily Prophet, which she could tell he had no intention of reading this morning, and had a strawberry between her lips when she looked up and caught Lucius looking at her. "What?" she said, licking the fruit's juice off of her lips.

He minutely shook his head. "Nothing. I'm going back to bed." He rose from his chair with some difficulty.

"Take that glass of water with you," she told him. He obediently picked it up and retreated towards the stairs. "I'm going to eat your bacon," she called after him, and took it from his plate without waiting for his permission.

While Lucius recovered, Hermione explored the house. It had three levels (five, if one included the cellar and the attic), an exorbitant number of guest rooms (twelve, including hers), three separate rooms for taking meals (the breakfast room, the formal dining room, and an informal one Hermione had not seen before), a large drawing room and two smaller ones (in one of which she and Lucius had had tea), the study, the front hall/ballroom, and Lucius' and Draco's rooms, as well as several bathrooms. She had intentionally avoided Lucius' room in order to let him sleep off his hangover in peace, but had come across Draco's room quite by accident, assuming it to be one of the guestrooms. She recognized it as his immediately, though, as soon as she stepped inside. It was covered in Slytherin paraphernalia and smelled ever so slightly of _boy._ Hermione wrinkled her nose and promptly exited, having no desire to spend even the smallest amount of time in the room where Draco had spent so much of his time doing god only knew what.

She then made a quick trip to Diagon Alley and bought sheer white curtains for her window, two porcelain lamps, three silver picture frames, and two paintings—one of a girl sitting in a field of yellow flowers and one of a large stone fountain. She transfigured all of these things to be small enough to fit inside her purse and went back to the manor to finish her room.

Hanging the curtains made a surprisingly big difference in completing the room, as did the lamps and the paintings. Hermione took a moment to stand back and admire it, very pleased with herself. She then put a photograph of her, Harry, and Ron in their first year at Hogwarts in one frame, one of her parents in the second, and found that she wasn't sure what to put in the third. She put it in the drawer of her nightstand for the time being and began unpacking her suitcase.

She was almost finished when a soft knock sounded on her open door. She turned to see Lucius standing there, studying her handiwork with no discernible expression.

"Hi," she said, tossing the stack of sweaters she had been holding onto her bed and walking towards him. "You look much better," she observed. "How do you feel?"

He nodded once. "Better."

He was still looking around her room, so she turned around to see what he was seeing. "What do you think?" she proudly asked, but he didn't answer, so she turned back around to face him. "I realize it's a little..."

"Pink," he finished for her.

"You don't like it?" she asked, a little disappointed.

"It's lovely," he assured her. "I just didn't realize it would be so... pink."

She furrowed her brows. "It's only the comforter," she argued.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "but it's so..."

"Pink, I know," she finished for him, somewhat bitterly. She then looked around at her room, thinking of a suitable compromise, and began waving her wand. The walls were now lavender instead of beige, the comforter was white, and the sheets were silver.

Lucius gave a small exhale of relief and nodded his approval. "That's much better," he said. "The paintings, in particular, are very well-chosen."

"Thank you," Hermione said somewhat sarcastically, but he chose to ignore her tone. She didn't mind; the fact that he heard it was enough.


	15. Antagonizing Draco

"Are you hungry?" Hermione asked, recalling herself to concern for Lucius' hangover now that the matter of her bedroom's décor was settled.

He nodded once. "Famished, actually."

"Why don't we have some supper?"

He nodded again. "I've already told Fern to begin. On Wednesdays she prepares a salad."

"Nonsense," Hermione said, furrowing her brow. "That's not proper hangover food at all. You need protein and carbohydrates. Preferably something greasy."

Lucius' lip curled in distaste. "Greasy?" he repeated.

She nodded, undeterred by his obvious disapproval. "Yes. The grease dilutes the alcohol in your system. Judging by the sight of you this morning, the amount you drank last night won't have completely metabolized quite yet."

"Don't talk about alcohol," Lucius requested, turning rather pale.

Hermione cast him a sympathetic look and started for the door, saying, "I'll tell Fern to skip the salad and make some bangers and mash." She touched him on the arm as she passed.

Electing to put her own spin on the mashed potatoes, Hermione joined Fern in the kitchen while Lucius waited in the dining room with yet another glass of water. The elf was so startled by her mistress' presence in the kitchen that she dropped the bowl she had been carrying, shattering it and spilling lettuce all over the floor. Hermione repaired the bowl and cleaned up the mess with a wave of her wand, and kindly asked Fern to allow her to help with the preparation of the meal. Still quite discombobulated, Fern stammered something unintelligible and wringed her hands for close to a minute before finally nodding and starting to fry the sausage.

Pausing only to ask Fern where she could find the ingredients she needed, Hermione went about making a delicious version of mashed potatoes she was quite sure Lucius had never tasted, or even heard of, before. It was not remotely an English recipe. She added grated cheddar cheese, a large spoonful of sour cream, bits of bacon and some chives, and mixed it all together until the texture was uniform. She noticed Fern looking over at her as she did so, and tried very hard not to laugh at the elf's expression, which was a comical combination of fascination and suspicion.

Deciding that she had perturbed Fern enough for one day, Hermione left the kitchen to join Lucius at the table, allowing her to serve them. When the plates had been set before them, Lucius' eyes landed on the potatoes and remained fixed there for several moments. After failing to understand them, he asked, "What on earth is wrong with the mash?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," Hermione answered guilelessly. "I added some things to it."

The suspicion on Lucius' face was enough to rival Fern's. "What things?"

"Taste it and I'll tell you."

Leaning away from his plate with a look of utter mistrust, he said, "Perhaps it is not so vital that I know, after all."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's quite popular to eat mash this way in America."

"That is not exactly a favorable recommendation," he retorted. Then, with genuine curiosity, "Have you been to America?"

"No," she answered stiffly, clearly hoping to leave it at that. But when he refused to pick up his fork and continued staring at her, unblinking, she realized his stubbornness would outperform hers – this time, anyway. Sighing in exasperation, she explained: "I learned it from an American exchange student. He completed his work study at my parents' dental practice."

" _He_ ," Lucius repeated with a smirk that failed to reach his eyes. "I begin to see why you wished to avoid discussing it."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him challengingly.

"Was this dental student a beau of yours?"

Her jaw tightened. "Perhaps," she answered primly.

"One of your three, I presume?"

Hermione's eyes widened at the baldness with which he had asked the indelicate question, and her cheeks became violently red. "That is none of your business!" she shrilly admonished him.

"Is it not?" he asked, though his tone made it clear that it was not so much a question. He was confident in how she must reply.

Her lips pressed together. "Your food is getting cold."

"Answer my questions and I'll eat."

Hermione leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes. "Yes!" she admitted. "His name was Jeremy. My parents set us up. We dated for four months, give or take. When he went back to America, we both said we'd keep in touch, but neither of us did. It was nothing spectacular. He was a perfectly nice young man, but rather dull."

"In bed or out of it?" he asked, teasing.

Her mouth opened in further surprise at his brass, but she quickly snapped it shut. Knowing he would press her until she answered, she didn't try to forestall him. She tried not to smile as she responded, and failed. "He was better than Ron, but that's hardly a glowing endorsement."

Lucius laughed appreciatively at that, causing Hermione's blush to deepen.

Equal parts amused and embarrassed, she turned her attention to her plate and muttered, "Eat your food," just loud enough for him to hear.

After their meal, they retired once again to the study, though tonight his usual nightcap was conspicuously absent. Hermione suspected it would take him a few more days to work up the courage to resume his routine. Still, they enjoyed the friendly crackle of the fire, and the atmosphere in the room was very relaxed. She suspected they would accomplish much of their getting acquainted in the study after dinner, as for some reason they both seemed much more comfortable with one another in this room and at this hour than any other. It didn't bother Hermione; she would use whatever tools she had at her disposal to build intimacy between them.

Intimacy. Yes, there was that, as well. Hermione blanched at the thought – not because she was repulsed by him, as she certainly wasn't. Lucius Malfoy was a very attractive man. Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, that devilishly charming smile, those intense blue eyes… Sometimes she felt he could burn a hole right through her with those eyes. He had been polite and courteous, to be sure, but underneath his impeccable manners Hermione sensed a kind of roguishness about him. No, Hermione freely acknowledged to herself that she had nothing to complain about with regard to her future husband's allure. What made her so nervous about the thought of consummating their relationship was… Well, quite frankly, he intimidated her. He was a great deal more experienced than she, for one; and for another, Hermione did not think of herself as sexy. She had been pursued by exactly three people before the law was passed: Viktor Krum, with whom she had never gotten past first base; Cormac McLaggen, who would likely have shagged any girl between sixteen and sixty; and Ron Weasley. She did not count her American beau, as they had been set up, and she disregarded any suitors the Preservation of Magic Act had brought about simply due to its coercive nature. If a wizard had to select a witch of half-blood or less, Hermione was sensible to the fact that she was a fair choice. Her war hero status made her somewhat of a catch. But while she believed herself to be reasonably pretty, she did not think she possessed that intangible quality that made men metaphorically wet their shirtfronts from salivating.

To sum it up, she had no idea why Lucius had chosen her above all her peers, and she feared she would disappoint him.

"Miss Granger, you are being very quiet," he interrupted her reverie. "What occupies your thoughts?"

_Funny you should ask, Mister Malfoy._

" _Father!_ " a voice bellowed from the foyer.

"Oh, god," Hermione moaned, dropping her forehead in her hands.

"I'll handle this," Lucius offered as he rose from his chair, obviously looking forward to the coming exchange as much as she was.

Hermione said nothing, but stood up to join him. She was not in the habit of hiding like a coward while others fought her battles for her. They walked together from the study and within seconds had come across Draco in the front hall.

"Ah, here they are, the happy couple," Draco bitterly spat.

"What can I do for you, Draco?" Lucius drawled, affecting extreme boredom.

"You can explain to me what the bloody hell is going on here!" his son angrily responded.

"Really? We're going to do this?" Hermione asked.

"What do you think is going on here?" Lucius asked.

"Alright, I guess we are," Hermione muttered resignedly.

" _She moved into the manor?_ " Draco demanded incredulously.

"People often cohabitate before marriage," Lucius said, not without some measure of haughty amusement. "It's not exactly traditional, I admit—"

"Marriage?" Draco interrupted rudely. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Lucius' eyes narrowed at his son. "Your grades in school never marked you as a genius, Draco, but surely your faculties will allow you to recall Miss Granger's last birthday?" His conversational tone was not nearly enough to camouflage the caustic attitude to which he treated the younger man.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I recall it, but I didn't think you'd go _through_ with it!"

"And why not?" Hermione asked, ready to be intentionally or unintentionally insulted.

"Look, Granger," Draco began, acknowledging her for the first time since he'd entered the house. "You're in way over your head with this one," he said, gesturing towards Lucius "I've seen him go through dozens of women, each more meaningless than the last. And as for _you_ ," he continued, addressing his father, "what in the name of Merlin's wrinkled arse are you about, chasing a bit of skirt who's not half your age? It's pathetic!"

"You're one to talk about undervaluing women," Hermione accused him, her face darkening in anger. "Your father has been a perfect gentleman to me, which is loads more than I can say for you, you—you—"

"My father could be _your_ father, Granger," Draco uselessly pointed out.

"Well, thank heavens he isn't, or else our planned activities some six months from now would be wildly inappropriate!" she retorted.

Draco's face twisted into a comical expression of disgust. "Don't put that image in my head! Ugh!"

"Oh, does it displease you?" she asked conversationally. "I rather enjoy it."

She said it specifically to perturb him, and it hit the mark. His eyes widened in surprise as his normally pale face blanched even further, and Lucius quietly coughed beside her, disguising a chuckle. It turned out to be rather fun, antagonizing Draco.

"This entire thing is _preposterous!_ " the younger Malfoy asserted, shaking with frustration. "I had her picked out months ago, and you just swoop in at the last minute and—"

"Look here, Lusty McGrabass!" Hermione shouted, having finally lost her patience. "Despite what your admittedly questionable parenting has taught you," she began, casting an irritated look at Lucius, "pouting and whining and stamping your pampered feet will _not_ get you your way!"

Draco sneered unattractively, hesitated a moment, then leaned slightly in their direction and said, "I am not happy with this," as though it mattered.

Hermione gasped dramatically. "He's unhappy!" she exclaimed, as though she had only just understood the circumstances. "He's unhappy!" she repeated directly to Lucius, whose amusement was threatening to burst forth most improperly. "Well, that settles it, doesn't it? We'll just have to pop over to the Ministry and break our contract. A year in Azkaban seems an appropriate price to pay for making Draco _unhappy_ , don't you think?"

"Listen," Draco growled menacingly, "you swotty little Mudblood—"

"Be careful, Draco," Lucius interrupted, the threat implicit in his voice despite its coolness. The corner of his mouth twitched as he said, "You are speaking to my future wife."

Hermione could tell simply by his minuscule smirk that he had said it with the express intention of annoying Draco, and now it was she who had to bow her head to avoid exposing how badly she wanted to laugh.

Recognizing defeat – at least for the present – Draco threw his hands up in the air with an exasperated shout and stormed from the manor, slamming the doors most huffily behind him.

Lucius and Hermione carefully glanced at one another, found themselves in danger of bursting into laughter, and quickly looked away. "That shouldn't have been so much fun," Hermione said.

"Take your pleasure where you find it, Miss Granger," Lucius advised.

 

They returned to the study after Draco left and had another pleasant conversation, though less intimate or suggestive than that of the night before. As the fire died down, Lucius offered to escort Hermione to her room. They ascended the stairs in silence, the air of familiarity stubbornly remaining behind in the study. When they reached her door, Hermione turned to face him.

"Goodnight, Mister Malfoy," she said with a smile.

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," he replied with a slight bow of his head. Then he turned and walked away from her.

Hermione felt a sense of anxiety she couldn't explain – _Stop him!_ she said to herself. He had gotten four steps away, five, six – "Wait," she called after him.

He halted and turned on his heel but remained where he was, looking at her attentively.

"Aren't you…" Hermione trailed off, suddenly self-conscious, and began fidgeting nervously with her fingers. She forced herself to spit it out. "Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?" There she was, out on a high, high limb.

Lucius didn't react immediately; he appeared to be unsure if he had heard her correctly. But then he blinked once, took a step, and another, and another, until he was within twelve inches of her. Their eyes momentarily locked, and then he slowly leaned in, bringing his lips to her cheek, where they lingered. She felt the warmth of his breath in her ear. She felt the heat of his lips on her face. Goosebumps tingled down her neck, and then he pulled away.

She met his eyes again, but something in his gaze daunted her, so she looked away just long enough to break the spell. "Goodnight," she said again, with another smile.

"Goodnight," he softly replied.


	16. Telling Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fans of the 2005 version of _Pride & Prejudice_ will notice that I borrowed a line.

Hermione stood outside the door to her parents’ house, waiting for one of them to answer her knock and feverishly hoping that it would be her mother who would. She had learned only an hour before that her father seemed to have completed the “silently stew” phase with which he greeted unpleasant or distressing news, and had now progressed to “belligerent sarcasm.”

Enjoying the convenience of the telephone Lucius had graciously had installed, she had taken the opportunity to call her mother that morning. She was rewarded with the privilege of listening to her father in the background, in the middle of a glorious tirade.

“Is that our daughter?” he’d asked, his voice perfectly audible although Hermione could tell he was some distance from the phone. “How wonderful. I can’t wait to hear about all the enormous life events that must have transpired in the past three weeks.”

“Thomas,” her mother chastised.

“Things do seem to happen fast in our darling daughter’s life,” he continued, undeterred by his wife’s rebuke. “Have we missed the wedding? Has she had our first grandchild yet?”

“Perhaps you’d better come and talk to your father,” her mother had suggested, her careful tone making it clear that diffusing the situation without such a conversation taking place was, at best, highly improbable.

To Hermione’s relief, it was her mother who answered the door now, her face bearing the delicate strain of having weathered Mr. Granger’s poor temper for the entirety of the morning. She ushered her daughter inside.

“Where is he?” Hermione asked in hushed tones, shrugging off her jacket.

“He’s in the living room,” her mother replied, taking the jacket rather abruptly from Hermione’s hands and hanging it on the hook by the door. Hermione felt a pang of guilt for avoiding this confrontation with her father for as long as she had; that was the cause of his current irascibility, there could be no doubt, and her mother did not have the kind of disposition that bore up well in an emotional climate such as this one.

“I take it softening him up didn’t go as well as we’d hoped?”

“No, it didn’t,” Mrs. Granger answered, “now go on, before he starts up again.”

Hermione slowly ventured into her parents’ living room, where she found her father seated in his favorite chair, facing the television. The casual observer would have noticed nothing unusual about his demeanor, but Hermione knew him well enough to pick up on the stiffness in his posture and the tension in his hands as they rested on the arms of the chair. Quietly, she wandered over to the sofa and took the place nearest to him. “Hi, Dad,” he softly greeted him, after giving him a few moments to absorb her presence.

He took one breath, let it go, and replied curtly, “Hermione.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I called,” she offered.

“Has it?” he answered, with just a touch of sting.

“Yes,” she admitted with a small sigh, preparing herself for what was to come. “Nearly a month.”

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s almost as though there was something you wished to avoid discussing with me.”

Hermione was not a fan of navigating the landmines made of her father’s passive aggression and sarcasm. In truth, it was the one trait of his she didn’t admire, and she fervently wished he could simply have a direct conversation about something that upset him. She let his comment lie there unacknowledged for several increasingly uncomfortable moments, hoping that he would be the first to crack, but of course, he wasn’t. “Would you like to discuss it now?” she finally asked.

“Discuss what, exactly?” he began, and she could tell that this was, in fact, only the beginning. “Your completely out-of-the-blue engagement? The fact that said engagement is made entirely out of paper, with not a single shred of love or commitment to be found? Shall we discuss how you are now cohabiting with your betrothed, who, from what I understand, was little more than a stranger to you a few weeks ago? Why don’t we discuss the fact that the bugger is practically _my age?_ Oh, no, you probably only wanted to discuss the weather. Forgive me.”

Piqued by what she considered to be immature and disrespectful behavior, Hermione dealt some back to him. “Actually, I was rather hoping we could discuss the merits of badminton over those of cricket.”

That provoked Mr. Granger to transition from sarcasm to business, which is exactly the reaction Hermione had been hoping for. For the first time, he met her eyes. “I really don’t see how you can be taking this so lightly,” he admonished her. “You tell us near to a month ago that you’re engaged – the first I’d heard of there being any man within a hundred square miles of you, by the way – then I have to find out from your mother that you’ve _moved in_ with the bastard, who by all accounts is an arrogant, poncing prat. Which, as it so happens, is still the least of his shortcomings.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Have you been talking to Harry?”

“I’ve got to get my information _somewhere_ , haven’t I?” he retorted. “Seeing as my own daughter doesn’t see fit to inform me of anything more significant than what the Prime Minister wore to tea with the Queen!”

“I’m not privy to details of the Prime Minister’s wardrobe, actually.”

At this refusal to take him seriously, his eyes widened and he even lurched forward in his chair. “ _You know what I mean!_ ” he blurted, somewhat shrilly for a man.

“Alright, alright,” Hermione said soothingly, putting her hands up in a gesture of surrender. As he settled back into his seat, she formulated another attempt at conflict resolution. “What can I do to make you happy about this? Or,” she continued, cutting him off before he could launch himself into a vehement disavowal of that prospect ever coming to fruition, “at least make it easier for you to accept?”

He caught her gaze for a moment before answering, and for the first time since she’d arrived, his voice lost some of its edge. “You could tell me _you’re_ happy about it.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but found she wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m not… _un_ happy about it,” she finally offered, to which her father responded with a dubious snort and a shake of his head. “Dad,” she began again, her tone imploring him to listen, “the situation is awkward, yes, but it _is_ improving. Honestly!” she added, seeing the skepticism turn the corner of his mouth. “He’s made every effort to make me comfortable, and been honest with me about some things that were difficult for him to discuss; it really seems to matter to him that we form some basis for a relationship. He knows his work isn’t done just because he’s got me under contract, I promise you,” she assured her father. “In truth, he’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“I know nothing about this man,” Mr. Granger stubbornly maintained. “I know nothing of his character. I know he’s an aristocrat who fought on the wrong side during the war, and I know he took advantage of an archaic law that allowed him to claim my daughter practically as property. He hasn’t even had a chance to make a first impression and already he’s the last man in the world to whom I would consider giving you away.”

Hermione carefully kept her tone free of argument while still pointing out, “There are nuances you’re overlooking. Yes, he fought for Lord Voldemort, and yes, he changed sides when the war was over. There are those who find his turnaround convenient, and that’s fine. All things considered, it’s a valid opinion. But his behavior towards me, in all respects, has only given substance to his assertion that his change of heart was genuine. And as for claiming me as property,” she continued, her voice hardening a bit at the unwelcome reminder of that stupid, stupid law, “someone was going to do it. The only other two who showed up that morning at the Ministry were his son, whose bollocks you’d have in a blender if you knew half of what he’s been up to, and _Ron._ ” She spoke her ex-boyfriend’s name with obvious distaste.

“And what’s wrong with Ron?” her father countered.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You _hated_ him when we were dating!” she accused. “And now you want me to _marry_ him? _Seriously?_ ”

“No, I don’t want you to marry him!” he shouted. “He’s a homespun ginger idiot, and he’s not good enough for you! But at least he’s not a bloody Nazi!”

Exhausted, Hermione let her head drop into her hands for a minute while she collected herself. “Just meet him, Dad,” she said, returning to the conversation. “Give him a chance. You might actually like him.”

“And just when am I supposed to do that? I don’t suppose he’s due for a cleaning,” he replied tartly.

“You and Mum could come over for dinner sometime,” Hermione suggested.

There was a beat in which her father seemed to be latching onto an idea. “Dinner?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed hesitantly. “Dinner.”

Disturbingly, Mr. Granger almost smiled. “Wonderful. We’ll be there at seven. Can’t wait.” He picked up his newspaper from the side table next to his chair and began reading it casually, as though nothing even remotely out of the ordinary had happened or been discussed.

And Hermione quietly began to panic.

 

When she returned to Malfoy Manor, Hermione was experiencing an uncomfortable and disorienting sensation in which her outer limbs seemed to be numb while her core was fevered and jittery. It felt an awful lot like “fight or flight,” and in truth, she would have chosen “flight” in a heartbeat. Her father was on the warpath, and the foundation on which she and Mister Malfoy were to build their relationship was far from steady. With only a few months before they were to wed, the last thing they needed was a setback – like, say, her father showing up and doing his level best to undermine the entire arrangement.

“Fern will take your coat and scarf, Mistress Hermione.” Hermione started as the high-pitched voice brought her whirring thoughts to a screeching halt.

“Thank you, Fern,” she replied, too distracted to bother with refusing Fern’s service. “Where is Mister Malfoy?”

“Master is in the office, Mistress.”

“Hermione,” she automatically corrected. “Thank you.”

When she entered the room, Lucius was halfway through skimming a long roll of parchment. “That was a quick visit,” he observed.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, setting the parchment on his desk. “I was just reviewing my monthly financial report.”

“Still in atrociously good shape, I assume,” Hermione bitterly replied.

Lucius caught the jab, but elected to let it pass, responding instead with a tongue-in-cheek, “It will do. How are your parents?”

Unable to call to mind an appropriate adjective to describe the state of affairs, Hermione only looked at him, hoping her expression (it felt a bit like biting into a lemon) communicated well enough.

“Ah,” Lucius said.

“My mum’s on board,” she offered.

“And your father?”

Her expression soured further.

“Ah,” he said again.

Hermione took a breath. “There’s more. They’re coming round for dinner.”

“Good,” he answered encouragingly.

“Not good.”

“Oh. When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” he asked, his eyebrows slightly raised. Hermione nodded. “Who’s idea was that?”

“I was the one who suggested he and Mum have dinner with us sometime,” she said. “He was the one who decided ‘sometime’ meant tonight at seven.”

“I see,” he replied. “And to what do I have the pleasure of looking forward?”

“At best, uncomfortable silence and thinly-veiled hostility. At worst, frequent and general rudeness accompanied by the occasional insult.”

Lucius took a moment to absorb this. “Splendid.”

“Quite,” Hermione agreed. After a moment, she said, “I can call them and cancel.”

“No, don’t,” Lucius replied. “This encounter will have to occur sooner or later. Best get it over with. I’m sure your father only wants to be assured that I’m not a salacious villain, twirling my moustache and lewdly waggling my eyebrows at his only daughter.”

Normally, Hermione would have laughed; as it was, her present mood would allow her no more than an amused smirk. “I don’t think it’s your eyebrows he’s worried about you waggling at me.”

Lucius held her gaze and returned her tight smirk with one of his own. “Even so.” Hermione blushed and lowered her gaze. “What shall we put on the menu?” he asked, correctly reading her delicate discomfort and tactfully changing the subject.

She exhaled heavily, blowing her cheeks out as she did so. “I don’t know. Nothing too showy. Don’t want it to look like we’re trying too hard.”

“So a six-course meal is out, then.”

“ _Right_ out,” she confirmed. “An entrée and dessert ought to do it.”

“Roast chicken and potatoes?” he suggested.

“Mm,” she concurred with a nod.

“And a trifle for dessert?”

“Too much,” she said. “Let’s have apple cake. My dad likes apples.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “Fern?”

She appeared with a _pop_ , startling Hermione enough to cause her to jump. “Master?”

“The Grangers will be here for dinner tonight. Roast chicken and potatoes. Apple cake for dessert. Set four places in the casual dining room and chill a bottle of white wine.” He turned to Hermione. “Do you prefer Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?”

Hermione only looked at him.

“The Sauvignon, Fern.”

“Is there anything else, Master?”

“No.”

“You have to give her the night off tonight,” Hermione said as soon as the elf had disappeared.

Lucius blinked. “Pardon me?”

“After she’s finished cooking,” Hermione clarified, “you have to give her the night off. She can’t be seen serving us. My parents will have a fit.” When he didn’t respond, she continued with: “They have this thing about slavery, you see.” Her voice had taken on a dour edge.

“Very well. Fern?”

Another _pop._ “Master?”

“Your only responsibility tonight is preparing the meal. Do not greet the Grangers at the door and do not serve us at dinner. They are not to see you. Understand?”

The elf’s entire face was taken over by obvious anxiety.

“It is my wish, Fern,” he pressed sternly.

“Yes, Master.” _Pop._

Hermione rounded on him once again. “And while we’re on the topic,” she began, her tone high-pitched and tight, “I also have this thing about slavery.”

“Which we will discuss at a later date,” Lucius said.

“Sooner than you think,” Hermione insisted.

“Fine,” he agreed, “but for now we have a more immediate concern. In less than eight hours I must be prepared to win over a man who is resolved to abhor me indefinitely. If you have any suggestions, I welcome them.”

She regarded him with apparent discomfort. “Just… try not to be so…”

He waited. “So…?” he prodded.

She tried again. “Well, do you think you could be more…”

He blinked. “More…?”

Giving up, Hermione sighed and shook her head. “Just tell Fern to chill a second bottle of wine. If tonight goes well, we’ll all be sharing it. If it doesn’t, I’ll be drinking it alone in my bedroom.”

 

At seven-twenty, Lucius and Hermione were still sitting in the parlor, waiting for her parents to arrive. Neither of them had spoken since five after, when Hermione had called her parents’ house and informed him that there was no answer, and so they must be on their way.

Now she said, “I’m so, so sorry. This is just my dad being rude to make a statement. He’s not normally this uncouth, I promise, and my mother will be mortified.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” he said. “You warned me what to expect.”

“Still, I—” She was cut off by the sound of the doorbell, which was a deep, ominous succession of three notes that struck a minor chord. _Typical,_ she thought.

They made their way together to the door, and Hermione stood aside as Lucius opened it to greet them. “Good evening,” he said, extending his hand. “Lucius Malfoy.” Mr. Granger strode by him and into the house without a word, but Hermione’s mother was quick to recover. “Jane Granger,” she said with a somewhat forced smile, claiming the handshake that her husband had rejected. “I’m so sorry we’re late.”

“I do hope dinner hasn’t gone cold,” Hermione’s father remarked with a peculiar tone.

Lucius made Mr. Granger wait for a response while he welcomed Mrs. Granger inside and closed the door behind her. Then he said, “Not at all. As a precaution, I placed a warming charm on our food. It will be hot to the last bite.”

“Hmmph.”

There was a brief pause that was just beginning to creep into awkward territory when Mrs. Granger observed, “Your home is just stunning. I’d love to take a tour after dinner.”

“It would be my pleas—”

“Don’t be daft, Jane,” Mr. Granger interrupted. “Take a tour of this place and you won’t be seen for weeks.”

Hermione felt strangely like she was watching the situation unfold on a television show. Wishful thinking, perhaps. “Dinner is this way, Mum. Dad.”

They all began the walk to the dining room, and Mrs. Granger made another attempt at conversation. “I take it this house has been in your family for some time?”

“Indeed, yes. The land was given to my ancestor by William the Conqueror.”

Hermione’s father snorted.

Lucius continued as though he had not heard him. “Not much of what you see is original construction. The kitchen, the cellar, and a few of the stone walls are all that remain of the first house. The rest was added on over the course of five hundred years or so.”

“La-dee-da,” Mr. Granger grumbled.

“How interesting,” Mrs. Granger said, a hint of warning to her husband making its way into her tone.

“Of course, the décor has been updated since then,” Lucius said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Granger concurred. “And it was very well done. It looks as though much of it was done in the French style.”

“Rather unpatriotic, don’t you think?” Mr. Granger pointedly observed.

“You have a keen eye, Mrs. Granger,” Lucius said. “The French style was very much _en vogue_ at the time of the last redecorating, Mr. Granger. Perhaps it is time for a fresh renovation.”

By this time they had reached the dining room. Hermione directed her parents where to sit (her father to the left of the head of the table and her mother at the other end) before taking her own seat to the right of Lucius’. He, meanwhile, was opening a bottle of wine. He poured Hermione’s glass first, then her mother’s, but just as he got to her father, Mr. Granger wordlessly placed his hand over his glass. Lucius then poured his own and sat down. “No need to stand on ceremony; do help yourselves.”

They ate in silence for several minutes before Mrs. Granger complimented the cooking. “This chicken is delicious,” she said with much sincerity. “So moist.”

“I find it rather dry,” Mr. Granger countered, drowning his portion in gravy.

“You must have taken an end piece,” Hermione quickly explained, eager to keep Lucius from having to answer his rudeness. “Mine is from the center and it’s perfect. Try another piece.”

“Hmm,” he acknowledged, but neglected to take her advice. “Made it yourself, did you, Malfoy?” he asked. “Or was that a task delegated to Hermione?”

In other words: _Do you think the kitchen is for women, you sexist bastard?_

Hermione’s breath seized in her chest.

“Actually, my housekeeper made it,” Lucius easily fibbed.

Hermione exhaled.

“Well, it’s superb,” Mrs. Granger said. “You must tell her from me, I’d love the recipe.”

“I certainly will,” Lucius promised.

“It must be nice,” Mr. Granger mused, “to have the _luxury_ of employing a housekeeper.”

“It _is_ nice,” Hermione said, once again jumping in between her father’s incivility and her husband-to-be, “as you well know, Dad, since you have a cleaning service come to the house every other week.”

He answered her with a frightening combination of a smile and a scowl. “Not quite the same, though, is it, dear?”

With her desperation having reached peak levels, Hermione felt a panicky laugh tremble in her throat and frantically pushed it down. She could think of no recourse but to change the subject. Her voice high-pitched with anxiety, she said, “Mister Malfoy, would you pass me the—”

“’Mister Malfoy,’ is it?” Hermione’s father interjected, his voice emboldened with confidence, as though he was inwardly saying “Ah-ha!”

There was a long, ominous pause, in which Hermione realized that she had just handed her father the final nail for him to hammer into the coffin. “It’s just…” she began, grasping for a way to deescalate. “I’ve always called him that, but—”

“How unusual, to refer to one’s fiancé so formally,” he interrupted again. “I can’t decide whether I should be alarmed by this perplexing display of detachment from the man you will one day call your husband… or relieved,” he continued, now addressing the man in question with a dangerously deliberate tone, “that you are not, as of yet, on a _first-name basis_ with my daughter.”

The atmosphere, which had already been struggling through a sharp and stubborn layer of tension, quickly turned ice-cold. Hermione was too shocked by her father’s brass to register her own embarrassment, let alone think of any conceivable way to recover the conversation; even her mother was stunned into silence.

The two men only stared at each other, Hermione’s father with unshakable tenacity and Lucius in the same manner one might observe a chess board while trying to ascertain one’s opponent’s next move. Finally, Lucius stood. “Mr. Granger,” he began, his voice as cordial and collected as it had been all evening, “let us leave the ladies to their dessert. Won’t you join me in the study for a glass of brandy?”

As her father proceeded where Lucius directed him, clearly eager to continue his verbal assault, Hermione let go of the breath she had been holding and collapsed into the back of her chair. She was by no means convinced that Mister Malfoy could coax her father into a state of even cautious optimism at the prospect of their marriage, but she was certain that he was more than capable of holding his own. At least the two men took the hostility with them from the room.

She turned to her mother with a sheepish smile and said, “Apple cake?”

 

Lucius and her father had spent at most fifteen minutes in the study before they rejoined Hermione and her mother for coffee and dessert, and the remainder of the evening went remarkably well. Mr. Granger even shook Lucius’ hand as he was preparing to leave, which caused Hermione’s mouth to hang open, which caused Mrs. Granger to quietly ask her if she was trying to catch flies. She snapped it shut and hugged her mother goodbye.

The door closed behind them, and Hermione and Lucius stood in the foyer for several moments. Finally, she asked, “What on earth did you say to him?”

He turned to her and said, “What say you to finishing that bottle of wine?”

“I say yes, please.”

“You get the glasses, I’ll get the bottle.”

When they reconvened in the study a minute later and had taken their regular seats, she asked again, “Tell me what happened. He was frothing at the mouth when you two left the room, and when you came back he was positively docile.”

He nodded. “Well, I began by letting him express himself to his heart’s content. He has quite the vocabulary.” He took a generous sip from his glass.

Hermione cringed. “How bad was it?”

He shrugged. “It had to be done. He would never have been satisfied until he’d said it.”

“Said what, exactly?” she pressed, afraid to hear the answer.

“This and that,” Lucius hedged. “It doesn’t matter. I assuaged his concerns tolerably well.”

“How so?” she asked, this time quite eager to hear the answer.

He thought for a moment, recalling the details of the conversation. “I assured him that your comfort and happiness were my top priorities,” he began; “that your honor had not been in any way compromised; and that I took my commitment to you every bit as seriously as I would had we been blessed with a more typical relationship.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Wow,” she said softly. “What did he say to that?”

“Something along the lines of, ‘I thought you didn’t hold with consorting with her kind.’”

“Oh, no,” she replied, wincing in obvious distress.

“I told him, ‘If you mean bright, sophisticated, self-possessed and beautiful young ladies, I am quite proud to consort with “her kind;” but especially with her.’”

Hermione was experiencing a kind of mental block that allowed her to absorb on some level what a wonderful speech that was, but did not allow her to identify any kind of appropriate response. So, she drank her wine.

They sat in easy silence for a time, basking in the relief of an unpleasant task finding its place behind them and enjoying their chilled wine in the fire-warmed room. Hermione, at last, began to feel some optimism for her situation.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting for permission to use my given name.”

She returned her attention to him, but he was considering his wine. “Oh,” she said. “No, I haven’t been waiting for permission. I just never really thought about it, before tonight.”

“Well,” he said, still failing to meet her eyes, “you may call my Lucius. You always could, you know.”

Hermione nodded. Her heart was beating fast, and she wasn’t sure why. “Alright,” she quietly acknowledged, but left it there.

“Say it.”

She looked over; his eyes had landed on her. He waited. She nervously licked her lips. “Lucius,” she said. Then, finding that she liked the way it felt in her mouth, she said it again, more confidently. “Lucius.”

He didn’t quite smile, but his expression warmed somehow.

After a beat, she let a shy, breathy chuckle hum through her closed lips and said, “You can use my name, too.”

He only looked at her, still not-quite-smiling, apparently savoring the expectancy.

“Well, go on, then!” she laughed.

He made her wait for it. Her pulse had quickened; suddenly she was hyper-aware of how his steel-grey eyes were dancing, and the way his shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. He made her wait until she thought she’d burst if she didn’t hear him say her name.

“Hermione.”


	17. Ambiguous Feelings

The next morning, Hermione came downstairs to find the breakfast room vacant. Confused, she checked her watch: 8:30. Lucius could be counted on to spend at least an hour in this room every morning, starting around 8:15. So where was he?

Fern, knowing in her way that Hermione had appeared, entered the room with a tray of the usual fare.

“Fern,” Hermione began as the elf set her spot at the table, “where is Lucius?”

“Master is in his office, Mistress.”

“Hermione,” she corrected for what must have been the dozenth time. It was beginning to grate on her. “Will you bring me the paper, please?”

There was an awkward beat of hesitation before she complied. Fern was not accustomed to requests, particularly polite ones, and it showed.

“Thank you,” Hermione said as she laid _The Daily Prophet_ on the table.

“You’re welcome,” Fern replied, though it was in an uncomfortable murmur and delivered as she scurried back into the kitchen.

Several tiny annoyances can add up quite easily, as Hermione was now experiencing. She sat down to eat her breakfast alone.

 

After she had finished, Hermione made her way to Lucius’ office. She found him with several pages of parchment sprawled across his desk, studying one intently before making notes and then moving on to another. “Morning,” she greeted him.

“Good morning,” he replied genially, though he neglected to look up at her.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast,” she observed.

“I woke early,” he explained. “I ate and then came directly here. We have a lot of work to do.”

“We do?” she asked.

“Why, yes,” he said, moving on to yet another page. “As I mentioned at your flat, a Malfoy wedding is a grand affair. It’s time to start planning. We should have started already, frankly.”

“Oh,” she said shortly, preparing for what was sure to be a longer discussion than she desired by sitting on the edge of his desk. She couldn’t have explained why, but the topic of their wedding turned out to be another emotional pest to pile onto the others she had experienced that morning. She could not think of a single thing she wished to talk about less.

Lucius, usually adept at picking up on these things, was too immersed to notice. “What do you think of colors?” he asked.

“In general?” Hermione asked cheekily.

This got him to look at her, but he still didn’t seem to notice her lack of interest in the topic. “Particular colors,” he clarified, “for the wedding.”

Hermione shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“We could do a combination of our House colors,” he suggested. “Red and silver, or green and gold?”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste and shook her head. “No.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes bright with enjoyment. He was very much in his element. “It would send the right message - one of unity and cooperation. It’s an excellent opportunity to capitalize on the novelty of our relationship.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, feeling insulted for the first time since she had come to the manor. “How romantic,” she said sarcastically, her voice taking on a steely edge.

His eyes took on a different kind of focus. “No,” he murmured, quietly contemplating for a moment. “No, you’re right, of course. Our wedding should not be used to make a political statement.”

Hermione consciously exhaled, trying to calm the burning irritation that had flared up in her chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “You’re a political creature. I know this.” She forced a smile onto her lips. “Think nothing of it.”

He nodded, then sank into thought for several moments. “What about purple?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

She blinked. It seemed an odd choice. “Purple?”

“Yes. It’s the color you were wearing the night of the ball.”

Her eyebrows raised of their own volition. It surprised her that he remembered what she’d been wearing. “Oh,” she acknowledged.

When he spoke again, his voice contained a note of tenderness, though nothing of his face was touched by it. “That was the night I decided to ask for you.”

She looked away. She knew she should be touched by his admission, and perhaps a part of her was, but she was also deeply uncomfortable and even somewhat agitated with him for saying it. All she could think when she searched for a reason was, _I’m not ready._ No matter how much she grew to like him, and despite the tentative attraction towards him she felt herself developing, she continued to resist forming an actual bond with him. She couldn’t seem to help it. “Well, then,” she said stiffly, “purple would be appropriate.”

His ability to sense what she did and did not wish to discuss had returned. “Done,” he said, his voice regaining its businesslike tone. He made a note on one of the pages on his desk.

Hermione could not shake her distemper, and yet she had no desire to quit Lucius’ company. So she remained where she was, her posture somewhat rigid, and waited for him to employ some of his usual charm and courtesy, hoping it would soothe her.

“Is there something vexing you?” he asked. “You seem a bit out of sorts.”

She inhaled for a moment, holding it. She wanted the conversation to move onto pleasant things, not dwell on her bad mood. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

 _Perhaps if I give him something, he’ll accept it and move on._ “Fern still won’t call me Hermione,” she offered, choosing the least offensive from among the things that had annoyed her that morning.

“It’s too familiar,” Lucius explained with a shrug, as though it were insignificant. “She’s a house elf; they’re conditioned to address their superiors with respect.”

Her lips tightened, and she took a moment to ensure that when she spoke, it would be in a calm, level tone. “I don’t like it,” she replied, each word clearly enunciated.

“So make it a command,” he suggested, clearly thinking the solution was obvious, “and she’ll have no choice but to comply.”

Hermione’s mental state upgraded from irritated to slightly outraged. “I don’t _want_ to command her,” she said, her voice losing some of its cool. “I don’t _want_ her to be unable to choose.”

He held her eyes for a moment. “Forgive me,” he said with sincerity. “I don’t know how else to assist you.”

She minutely shook her head for a moment before giving up on the endeavor. “I’m going to see if Ginny wants to go shopping,” she said with a sigh, hopping down from his desk and heading for the door.

“Make use of my accounts,” he called after her.

“I have my own money,” she snapped, not bothering to stop or even turn her head.

 

Dating Harry and being friends with Hermione had ignited in Ginny a fervor for Muggle fashion, and so it was with marked eagerness that she accepted Hermione’s invitation to go shopping that afternoon. Her eyes greedily pored over the clothes she would not be able to wear for a few more months yet, and before long she had to recruit Hermione to carry some of her selections because her arms were overfull.

“So,” she began, picking up a bright green cardigan and handing it to Hermione, “how are things at Malfoy Manor?”

Hermione hesitated. “We’re using each other’s first names,” she shared.

Ginny smiled, clearly pleased by the news. “ _Bow-chicka-bow-wow_!”

Hermione burst out laughing. It amused her to no end whenever Ginny used a phrase or expression from the Muggle world.

“That’s very good,” Ginny said. “And other than that?”

“Fine,” Hermione replied, but there was a note of hesitant insincerity in her voice.

Ginny picked up on it. “But?” she prodded.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know,” she said with resignation. “There’s really nothing technically wrong. We’re getting to know each other, and we like what we’re discovering. We’ve even mostly gotten past the initial awkwardness. I just…” She trailed off, unsure how to continue.

“You should try this on,” Ginny said, handing her a light pink cardigan like the green one she had picked out earlier. “You just what?” she nudged, back on topic.

Hermione pressed her lips together. “I’m really _annoyed_ with him,” she finally said, “and I really can’t explain why. I just…” Here she scrunched up her face and shifted her shoulders, as though to dislodge something unwelcome from them. “I want to shrug him off.”

“He’s not giving you enough space?” Ginny suggested.

“No, it’s not that. He gives me plenty of space.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, he’s quite perfect in that way. He rarely seeks me out; he lets me come to him.”

“Are you sure it’s him you’re annoyed with,” Ginny began, picking up a khaki skirt and eyeing it keenly, “and not the situation?” She put the skirt in Hermione’s arms and said, “This is for you, too.”

“Could be,” Hermione acknowledged. “I thought I’d pretty much made my peace with it, but perhaps I am holding onto some lingering resentment. Perhaps the minor annoyances are symptomatic of a larger issue.”

“Well, best figure it out quickly,” Ginny advised, making her way towards the dressing rooms, knowing Hermione would accompany her without having to ask. “You’re marrying him no matter what, so the last thing you want is to let it fester. I want my best friend happy on her wedding day.” When they arrived, all but one large room was taken. “Share?” she asked.

“Sure,” Hermione agreed. Once they were inside, she asked, “How is it that you don’t mind talking about Lucius?”

Ginny turned to look at her over her shoulder, unintentionally tossing her red hair magnificently as she did so. “You mean because of the whole sneaking a bit of Voldemort’s soul into my schoolbooks thing?”

Hermione furrowed her brows, a bit disturbed by how casually Ginny verbalized what had to have been one of the most traumatizing experiences of her life. “Yeah, that,” she confirmed, her bemusement making its way into her tone. “Why don’t you hate him?”

Ginny looked off to the side for a moment, contemplating. “You’d think I would, wouldn’t you?” she replied.

“I’d think you would,” Hermione affirmed, nodding.

Ginny sifted through the enormous pile of clothes, setting aside the items she could still try on over her round belly. It took her close to a minute, at the end of which she began holding up her options, deciding which to try on first. “I seriously doubt he knew what that diary really was,” she finally began, removing her maternity blouse and replacing it with a cream-colored turtleneck. “I mean,” she continued, examining her reflection, “if he knew it was harboring a piece of his lord and master’s soul, he’d be guarding it with his bloody life, wouldn’t he? Not foisting it off on some clueless schoolgirl. Yes?” she said, pointing to the sweater.

Hermione nodded. “Looks good,” she confirmed.

“And the thing is,” Ginny explained, moving on to a brown motorcycle jacket, “I’m in a position to know just how strong Voldemort’s influence is. So, right or wrong, I have some sympathy for Lucius.” At this she met Hermione’s gaze, her eyes hardened. “That being said,” she clarified, “I think I’m owed an apology.”

“You are,” Hermione immediately agreed. Remembering a conversation she and Lucius had had in the gardens, she added, “And I think he’s sensible of that. It wouldn’t surprise me if he delivered one, given the opportunity.”

“That ought to be good,” Ginny said with a laugh. “‘Hey, remember that time I gave you a horcrux when you were eleven? My bad!’ Jacket: yes or no?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “I like it better than the sweater, actually.”

“Me, too. Try on that cardigan and skirt I gave you.”

Obediently, she stripped off her clothes and put on Ginny’s suggestions. “I still feel you’re being awfully understanding,” she maintained.

“Well, why don’t _you_ hate him?” Ginny asked.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with him,” Hermione justified. “I’ve had the opportunity to see how he’s changed, how he regrets his past actions and wants to be different. You haven’t.” She had finished dressing, but was so engrossed in the conversation she didn’t look in the mirror yet.

Ginny waited a moment, as though trying to decide whether to divulge something or keep it to herself. It should come as no surprise that she chose the former. “Did you see him at the Battle of Hogwarts?”

The question took Hermione aback. It was a subject not often brought up; truthfully, it was something everyone who had been there wanted to forget. “I don’t think so,” she said uncomfortably.

Ginny shrugged on the green cardigan she’d picked for herself over a white camisole that stretched enough to accommodate her belly. She, too, neglected her reflection. “He and Narcissa couldn’t have cared less about the battle,” she said. “They didn’t fling a single curse. All they cared about was finding Draco.” The women let that thought hang in the air for a while. “I knew then that he could be different,” Ginny explained. “That perhaps he was already. So when you turned up engaged to him,” she said with a teasing smile, “it didn’t strike me as the end of the world. Come on, let’s have a look.”

They both turned towards the mirror, standing side-by-side.

“Aww,” Ginny sang, “friendship cardies!” They both laughed. “Are we adorable, or are we adorable?”

“Secret option C,” Hermione answered. “We’re adorable.”

Ginny reached over to the pile of clothes and picked up an olive green sweater dress. “When I can drink coffee again,” she said, holding the dress up to her, “we should wear our friendship cardies on a friend-date and have six or seven friendship cappuccinos.”

“Say ‘friend’ again,” Hermione teased.

“Shut up, twat,” Ginny casually tossed back. She sneered at her reflection and said, “This shade of green does nothing for me.” She then held it up to Hermione, and her eyebrows raised. “It does quite a bit for you, though. Brings out the gold in your eyes. Put it on.”

While Hermione began unbuttoning the sweater, Ginny sat down with a huff, her knees apart and her belly forcing her to lean back quite a bit in her seat. Hermione chuckled. “That doesn’t look comfortable.”

“It’s not,” Ginny assured her. “Two more months of this. I don’t know if I can take it.”

“Is Harry being helpful?” Hermione asked, shimmying out of the khaki skirt.

“Obnoxiously helpful,” Ginny replied, rummaging through her purse and pulling out a candy bar. “I finally got him to channel all that energy into getting ready for the baby, which was a mistake.”

“How so?”

“He went completely insane in the nursery,” Ginny said around a mouthful of chocolate. “It’s covered wall-to-wall with quidditch paraphernalia. You can’t even see what color the walls are anymore.” She chewed and swallowed. “The kid won’t even know or care what quidditch is until he’s, like, four, but try telling Harry that.”

“Try telling Harry _anything_ ,” Hermione said, pulling the dress over her head.

“Truth,” Ginny concurred. Hermione had the dress on and turned towards her, and her mouth fell open. “You look hot,” she said.

“So do you,” Hermione joked, referring to Ginny’s abominable posture and candy-filled mouth.

“Bite me,” Ginny said, taking another large mouthful. “Seriously, though,” she said, gesturing to the mirror. “Take a look at yourself.”

Hermione obeyed, and the bottom fell out of her stomach. “Oh,” she said.

“See?” Ginny said with a grin.

“It’s rather…” Hermione said, running her hands over her waist and hips, “snug.”

“It’s hot,” Ginny repeated.

“It’s rather…” Hermione continued, tugging at the hem, “short.”

“It’s _hot_ ,” said for the third time.

“It’s not really me,” Hermione tried to explain.

“It should be,” Ginny insisted.

“I mean…” Hermione said, turning this way and that and studying her reflection, “it does look nice, but--”

“When Lucius stops annoying you, you should put it on. He won’t give you _any_ space.”

Hermione laughed, but blushed. “Oh, I don’t know...”

“Don’t know what?” Ginny asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I’m just… not really sure I’m ready for that kind of attention from him.”

She eyed Hermione shrewdly. “You’re blushing,” she observed. “Does he make you _nervous_?” she teased, drawing out the word for emphasis.

“I don’t know!” she shot back, jokingly defensive. “Maybe,” she continued in the same tone. Then, her blush deepening, she ended with, “Yes!”

“Do you fancy him?” she prodded, wrapping up her candy and putting it back in her purse. One could always count on Ginny to be blunt.

“Um…” Hermione hedged, shrugging a shoulder, “I don’t know.”

Ginny only raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Look, I can see that he’s handsome,” she defended herself. “I do have eyes in my head. And if I’m being totally honest, we’ve had our moments. But I’ve never… thought of him in that way.”

“Well, perhaps you should try,” Ginny said. “You’ll be married inside of four months and the government expects you to have lots of sex and babies.”

“Ginny!” Hermione admonished, thrusting her flushed face into her hands. “For God’s sake!”

“Boots.”

Hermione looked up again. “What?”

“That dress,” Ginny expounded. “It calls for boots. Tall ones. Let’s go.” She grabbed Hermione’s hand and pulled her back out into the store.

 

After shopping for clothes, Ginny and Hermione had a late lunch. Then, for fun, they looked at furniture. Next, they stopped at Florean Fortescue’s and had ice cream. After that, Hermione still wasn’t ready for the day to be over and suggested they see a movie. When all was said and done, it was 8:00 -- well past dinnertime -- by the time she got back to Malfoy Manor.

She walked in the doors, both hands full of shopping bags, and Fern immediately _popped_ into sight. “Good evening, Mistress Hermione,” she said.

Hermione sighed, and supposed she ought to be grateful for the compromise. At least her first name was included in her title. “Hello, Fern.”

The elf reached her hands out for Hermione’s bags. “Fern will take Mistress’ things to her room.”

Before Hermione could protest, she had taken all four bags in her tiny hands and disappeared, then reappeared empty-handed within four seconds. “Would Mistress Hermione like Fern to make her dinner? Master has already eaten, but Fern can--”

“No, no,” Hermione quickly assured her before she could Disapparate into the kitchen, “I’ve eaten too.” She looked around to make sure they were alone, then lowered her voice to ask, “Is Lucius in the study?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She elected to let that one fly, thought for a moment, then looked directly into Fern’s eyes and said very deliberately, “I’m going out into the gardens.”

Fern blinked. “Mistress wants Fern to invite Master into the gardens?”

“No,” Hermione said, thinking that an outright invitation wasn’t the tack she wanted to take, “just, if he asks, tell him… that’s where I’ll be.”

The elf blinked again. “Yes, Mistress.”

"Hermione," she gently reminded her with a smile. "Thank you, Fern."

When Fern _popped_ out of the room, Hermione walked through the overlarge foyer, made a left turn to pass through one of the only slightly more overlarge living areas, strode through a set of double doors and out onto a balcony, and was met with a marvelous sight.

After sundown, the gardens were decorated with softly glowing orbs that floated among the hedges. The blooms were illuminated well enough for their colors to be vibrant, and the paths were lit well enough for one to make one's way throughout the gardens without risk of stumbling, but the stars were still magnificently bright.

Thinking she could not believe she had been at Malfoy Manor for a month and had still never been into the gardens at night, she eagerly skipped down the steps of the balcony to remedy it.

As she wandered down the paths, breathing in the scent of flowers and cool, crisp air, Hermione began to gather her thoughts. Even if Lucius did not find her out here tonight, she needed to be able to make him understand what had caused her testiness with him earlier. And in order to do that, she needed to understand it herself.

What had been the first thing to put her off? She supposed it was when she turned up for breakfast and he hadn’t been there. Hermione wasn’t one to lose her cool over a change in routine - at least not anymore - so the only reason his absence would have bothered her would be if she had desired his company. If she had wanted to spend time with him.

 _Oh, good,_ she thought to herself, _because this definitely wasn’t complicated enough. I could totally use some ambiguous feelings right now._

Wasn’t that good, though? Feelings? One ought to have feelings for one’s intended, and ambiguous feelings were better than no feelings at all.

Then there had been Fern continuing to call her ‘Mistress.’ That was straightforward enough. She despised slavery in any and all forms and she therefore equally despised being any creature’s mistress. And she was on some level disgusted that her future husband kept Fern as a slave, no matter how well he treated her.

Her anger at his failure to understand her when she had tried to explain that to him came rushing back, but she took a breath and reminded herself to take things in order. What had happened in between Fern and their discussion about her?

Ah, yes. The wedding. Lucius had brought up the wedding. And he had said that audaciously offensive thing about using their wedding as a political tool. Not that he had meant to be offensive, she acknowledged, and he had seen his error and apologized for it. Still, he clearly was not seeing their wedding as a romantic event, and that had upset her.

Did she want their wedding to be a romantic event?

_Cue more ambiguous feelings._

But the topic of the wedding had put her off even before his insensitive remark. She had not wanted to talk about it. Even now, she didn’t particularly want to _think_ about it. Was she in some sort of denial over the fact that it was happening? That her marriage to a Malfoy was an inevitability? She enjoyed his company enough, which was something she could easily admit to herself, and then there were the as-yet-undetermined feelings, but for some reason she resisted the idea of the wedding.

What was that thing she had said to herself? _I’m not ready._

 _And I’m not,_ she realized. _I am not ready to treat the wedding -- or our impending marriage -- as a reality._

That was fair enough. Nothing about her circumstances had been of her choosing, so it made sense that she would resist them.

And then he had gone all soft about the purple dress she’d worn to the ball. That had made her terribly uncomfortable, but in hindsight Hermione thought she had also experienced a kind of softening herself in response. On some level, she had been pleased to hear that she had made an impression on him that night. It had been romantic, what he’d said, and she had liked it.

And yet it had also made her mad at him.

_Well, shit._

“Hello.”

Hermione turned around to see Lucius coming up behind her. He asked, she thought with a rush of warmth. He asked Fern where I was.

 _Jesus, Hermione,_ she instantly chided herself, _are you hot or are you cold?_

_I’m ambiguous._

_Shut up!_

“Hi,” she finally replied.

“Fern said you would be here,” he said as he continued his approach.

“Yes.” A pause, and then, “I’m glad you found me.”

He had reached her, stood maybe three feet away, and said, “You are?”

“Yes,” she confirmed with a nod and a soft smile, but then her expression took on a slightly apologetic quality. “I wanted to talk to you about this morning.”

He slightly inclined his head in response.

“Have you ever had several small annoyances pile up too quickly for you to process them?” she asked. “And suddenly you’re in a piss-poor mood, but if you offered any of those annoyances as an explanation, you’d sound like a lunatic or, at the very least, like you could benefit from some serious therapy and maybe medication?”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed as though he wasn’t catching all of her references, but grasped the general meaning of what she said. “I believe I’m familiar with the concept,” he replied.

“Well,” she expounded, “as it turns out…” She lowered her head, not feeling confident enough to look him in the eye as she said what she was about to say. “I rather like starting my day by having breakfast with you.” After a moment, she returned her gaze to him. “So, that threw me off. And then I really, _really_ didn’t want to talk about the wedding, but you didn’t seem to be catching on…”

He nodded, absorbing what she said. “If you would prefer not to be involved in the process of planning it--”

“No,” she interrupted, “I do, I want to be involved.” His eyes narrowed again, and she realized she seemed to be contradicting herself. She attempted to clarify. “It’s just… I suppose I wasn’t ready for it to be… real.”

He blinked and lowered his head for a few moments, thinking. “It is a lot to take in,” he finally said.

She nodded and agreed, “It is.” She let only a beat pass before adding, “There’s something else.”

He took a breath, sighed, and returned his gaze to her. “You have my attention.”

“I want to present Fern with clothes.”

He closed his eyes, visibly frustrated, and turned to the side. “I have changed a great deal, Hermione,” he said with an edge to his voice.

“I know you have.”

“And it has been extremely difficult.”

“I know it has.”

“I treat Fern remarkably well.”

“She’s still a slave.”

He began shaking his head.

“Lucius,” Hermione began in a warning tone, “I accept that change is difficult, and I am prepared to be patient with you in many ways and on many issues, but _not this one_.”

His eyes shot to hers, but he didn’t argue.

“I want to present Fern with clothes,” she pressed, “I want to pay her a decent wage.” At his expression, she cut off any possible rejoinder with, “Don’t… even… try… to tell me that we can’t afford it.” When he remained silent, she concluded, “And I want her to have days off every week.”

He studied her pointedly for several long moments. At last, he found himself without any compelling claims to justify his position, and made a growling noise in his throat to register his displeasure. “She must continue to live here.”

“In a guest bedroom.”

He momentarily look as though he thought she’d lost her mind, but thought better of arguing and said, “The smallest one.”

“Fine.”

“And she only gets one day off a week.”

“Then you have to give her regular hours,” she insisted, “and breaks.”

Lucius blinked and clenched his jaw. “Breaks,” he repeated.

Hermione considered out loud, “Breakfast at eight and dinner at seven… That’s eleven hours a day. She needs three one-hour breaks.”

“She manages without them now.”

“Lucius…”

“Two,” he shot back. “No more.”

Hermione pursed her lips and eventually said, “As long as Fern agrees.”

After a few breaths during which he collected himself, Lucius released the tension from his body and walked towards Hermione. “Very well,” he said, his voice having returned to its usual smoothness. “You may have the honor of granting her freedom yourself.” He stopped in front of her, their bodies noticeably closer than they had been before. “I will refrain from bringing up the wedding until you tell me you’re ready.” He brought his hand to her face, caught a loose strand of hair in his fingers, and pushed it back behind her ear. “And I will have breakfast with you every morning.”

As was so often the case when he decided to be suave or charming, Hermione lost most of her ability to converse with anything approaching social aptitude. The way he held her eyes right now was not helping at all. “ ‘Kay.”


	18. Foolishly Optimistic

Hermione had been so eager to deliver the good news to Fern the next morning, she could scarcely make it through breakfast. Lucius noticed her barely-contained mirth, but didn't seem to share in it. Instead, he behaved rather like he was anticipating something unpleasant.

Finally, as Fern came to clear their plates, Hermione couldn't wait any longer. "Fern?"

Her big, round eyes looked up at Hermione expectantly over a pile of the morning dishes. "Yes, Mistress?"

Hermione beamed down at her. "Lucius and I would like to grant you your freedom."

The elf was visibly overtaken with shock.

"I've bought you this dress," Hermione began, reaching for a bag she had brought down from her room, but she stopped short when the room was filled with a resounding crash.

Fern had dropped all the dishes and now stood trembling, empty-handed, her eyes filled with tears. "Master is dismissing Fern?" she squeaked.

"Oh—" Hermione started, "no, we just want to—"

"Master is displeased with Fern's service?" she said, her voice even higher than before. She looked on the verge of a complete breakdown.

"No, Fern," Hermione said helplessly, "you misunderstand, we—"

But Fern was not listening. She collapsed into sobs too loud for Hermione to speak over.

Hermione was dumbfounded.

Lucius repaired all the broken dishes with a wave of his wand and sent them into the kitchen. "Fern," he said, kindly but firmly, and she managed to contain herself just enough to listen. "You are not dismissed from service. We will discuss this later. Return to your usual duties."

The elf picked herself up and retreated into the kitchen, whimpering sadly.

Hermione turned her gaze to Lucius, her mouth agape. "What just happened?"

Lucius adopted an apologetic expression. "You experienced a typical house elf's reaction to being released from their bondage."

"I don't understand," Hermione said, genuinely puzzled.

"It's their nature," Lucius said. "They like serving people."

"You cannot honestly tell me that any creature likes being a slave," Hermione objected.

"You make it sound so horrible," Lucius said, rising from his chair. "It's no different than being a maid or a butler."

"Yes, it's exactly like being a maid or a butler," Hermione replied sarcastically as she rose from her own chair, "except for that pesky freedom thing."

Lucius sighed and rolled his eyes as he started for his office.

"No, listen," Hermione continued, following him out of the room and down the hall. "Maids and butlers can negotiate with their employers about hours and wages. They can request time off. They can leave their current position and seek employment elsewhere if they don't think they're being treated fairly. They have their own lives; they are their own property." She shook her head in disbelief. "How can you not see the difference?"

"I do see a difference," he argued, now on the stairs, where she still trailed behind him, "but what you fail to understand is that they are happy with their current situation. As long as they're treated fairly, what's the harm?"

She narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. "You sound like Ron."

Affronted, he turned slightly so that he could look at her as he walked. "You wound me."

"I'm going to deliver a quote," she said, ignoring his complaint. "It's been attributed to Harriet Tubman, though no one can agree on whether or not she actually said it. Nevertheless, it's an excellent quote." She stopped suddenly and asked, "Have you heard of Harriet Tubman?"

"I have not," he replied sardonically. They were now at the top of the stairs and his office was within sight.

"She was a slave in America, and after she escaped she helped countless others do the same. Anyway, the quote is this: 'I freed thousands of slaves. I could have freed thousands more, if they had known they were slaves.'"

Lucius stopped outside his office doors and turned to face her. "I fail to see the point."

Hermione's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "The point is," she began, her voice shrill in her outrage, "that it doesn't matter if a slave is content in their enslavement; they would be better off free, and they deserve that freedom whether they know it or not! It's about quality of life, it's about dignity-"

"Hermione," he kindly interrupted, "I think you'll find that a great many house elves are not equipped for independence. They lack the basic life skills required for survival."

"You mean like cooking, cleaning, and running a household?" she asked sarcastically.

"I mean seeking employment, housing, and managing finances," he rebutted.

She looked almost disappointed that he didn't deliver a more compelling argument. "Then we should teach them," she replied deliberately, as though he must need her to speak slowly if he missed something so obvious.

He furrowed his brow. "Why should it be our responsibility to correct their deficiencies?"

"Are we not the ones responsible for those deficiencies?"

"Hardly," he said.

She blinked, her eyes widening again. "'Hardly'? Our race has subjugated theirs for thousands of years, making certain that they lacked the very skills you claim they would need to survive. It's like putting a lion in captivity from the moment it's born, and then blaming the lion for not knowing how to hunt! It's preposterous!"

"Hermione," he said again, his voice remaining calm despite the tone of hers, "did what you just witnessed give you no pause at all?"

She deflated slightly at that, but maintained her position. "She's just in shock," she said. "It's a huge adjustment. She'll come around."

"Have you ever known an elf to adjust well to freedom?" he asked.

"I have," she immediately replied, meeting his eyes defiantly. "Another elf of yours, in fact. Dobby."

That caught him off-guard, and it showed.

She used his silence to press her point. "After he left you, he worked in the kitchens at Hogwarts. Dumbledore offered him ten Galleons a week and weekends off."

Lucius blinked. "And did he take it?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

Hermione looked away and let escape a half-scoff, half-sigh. "He would accept no more than one Galleon a week and one day off a month," she grudgingly admitted before returning to her original stance. "But he was free, and he was happy, and every elf deserves the same opportunity."

Lucius took a moment to absorb this knowledge; he had never thought to wonder what had happened to Dobby. "Alright," he said, "Fern is devastated at the moment, so I think it would be best if we forget the whole thing. In the meantime," he pressed, cutting off another argument from Hermione, "why don't you spend what would have been Fern's 'adjustment period' educating her about what her independence would mean and how to cope with it. Then, after some time has passed, we'll revisit the situation and see how she feels about the idea of freedom."

Hermione's gaze darted to the side as she considered. "If I can teach her how to be independent," she said, almost to herself, "maybe she could help me do the same for other elves." Gathering steam, she looked back at Lucius and said, "You could help me introduce legislation to free them."

Lucius' expression clearly communicated his opinion that she was getting way ahead of herself.

"Would you?" she asked, her enthusiasm carrying her. "If we prepared enough elves for independence, would you help me secure their emancipation?"

He sighed, considering. "It would take a significant number of elves to bring the necessary attention to the issue, and you'd need a large number of supporters from the Wizarding community as well."

"How many?" she pressed, undeterred.

"I don't know," he replied. "To hazard a guess, I'd say a minimum of a hundred elves, and half as many witches and wizards."

"And then you'd help me?"

He hesitated, looking as though he was worried that she was setting herself up for an enormous letdown. "Hermione, how do you propose to obtain their masters' permission to take them from their duties and teach them life skills, all with the view in mind of securing their freedom?"

"Never mind that," she said dismissively, "I'll find a way."

He eyed her skeptically.

"You think I'm being foolishly optimistic."

"I do."

"I've told you I'll find a way, and I will. When the time comes for legislative action, will you help me?"

He pressed his lips together, but finally said, "If you can convince an appropriate number of elves that they desire their freedom, and arrange for their necessary education, you will have my support."

"Your public support?" she shrewdly clarified.

"My public support," he pledged.

Her face split into a grin. "Brilliant." Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.

Taken aback, it took him a beat to gently place his arms around her. After the briefest of moments, she remembered herself and pulled away.

She was blushing. "Thank you," she said softly, looking anywhere but at him.

"My pleasure," he replied. Then, apologetically, "I have work to do," gesturing to his office.

"Right," she said. "I'll see you later, then."

 

"Later" turned out to be after dinner, as Hermione kept herself occupied all day making plans for her "free the elves" movement (as yet unnamed) and Lucius had plans to go out for dinner (she hadn't asked with whom or for what purpose). She had helped herself to some leftover meat and potatoes, thereby essentially giving Fern the night off, which had nearly thrown the elf into a nervous breakdown; she recovered the situation by asking Fern to iron her white dress shirt. She had no need of it and it was already wrinkle-free, but she felt any form of reassurance that Fern still had a position at Malfoy Manor could only be a good thing.

She was reading in the study and waiting for Lucius when he arrived home just before nine. After giving Fern his coat and gloves, he came straight to the study for his usual nightcap. He stopped when he saw Hermione sitting in what had become her chair, her legs draped over the arm.

"Ah," he said, "now that's a pleasant sight."

Hermione smiled. "How was dinner?"

"Productive," he said, walking over to the bar. "I met with a florist."

He had said it casually, making his drink as he did so, but Hermione thought she detected an energy coming off of him, perhaps that he was excited about it. "Oh?" He came back over and handed her a small, watered down drink, then sat down beside her. "For the wedding?"

"Yes," he affirmed, but said no more.

Hermione appreciated his not forcing the topic on her, and spent a few moments debating whether or not she was up to discussing it. She supposed her lack of actual distaste for the thought was a positive sign. "Did you come to any decisions?" she asked.

"I did," he said. "Of course, I asked her to wait until I was able to confirm my choices with you. There's no hurry," he assured her. "I don't need to give her a final answer until February."

"I think I'd like to hear about it."

He seemed to gauge her sincerity for a beat or two, wanting to be sure she was ready to discuss it. Apparently satisfied, he agreed. "Very well. I've selected four flowers, based on their colors as well as their significance according to the language of flowers used in the Victorian era."

Hermione felt a laugh tremble in her throat and fought valiantly to keep it down. "You…" she began, but the laugh began to bubble up. She held her breath and tried again. "You speak Victorian flower language?"

He eyed her pointedly, obviously picking up on her amusement. "Not fluently."

She couldn't hold it in any longer; her body shook with silent laughter. Her eyes began to water with the effort of not letting escape an outright guffaw. He remained silent throughout her fit of mirth. When she finally got ahold of herself, she said, "I'm sorry. It's just-it's just-" She broke off to giggle. "It's just, I can't stop picturing you…" She had to hold her breath in order to continue, and when she did her voice was high-pitched as a result of her endeavor not to laugh. "Artfully arranging bouquets in your D-Death Eater m-mask!" She dissolved into wheezing laughter.

When she had collected herself enough for him to be heard, he said, "I admit the paradox is rather ludicrous." After a moment he added, "And, alright, it's a bit funny. But I'm actually quite proud of what I've come up with. I think it will be splendid."

"Of course, of course," Hermione said, getting control of herself. "I'm sorry." She took a deep, steadying breath and let it go. "Please tell me. I want to know, I swear."

"Very well," he said. "First, the lavender rose: enchantment."

"Mm-hmm," she approved with a nod, subtly wiping her eyes.

"The gardenia: purity and refinement."

Hermione's brow furrowed and her mouth tightened. "Apt," she said shortly.

"Patience," he cautioned her with an indulging smile. "Delphinium: infinite possibility."

She nodded again. "Optimistic," she said. "I like it."

"Not foolishly optimistic, I hope," he teased her.

She somehow managed to smile while also pursing her lips, but wouldn't take the bait. "To be determined," she said. "What's the last one?"

"Stephanotis: marital happiness."

She smiled. "Also optimistic. I like them all."

"Even the gardenia?" he teased.

"I've always liked gardenias," she told him with a chuckle, "and I love the way they smell. I can't say I'm thrilled with what they symbolize, given your history, but I'm counting on no one else knowing Victorian flower language," she teased in return, one last laugh at his expense quivering in her throat. "Besides, you said they'd look good with roses?"

"Quite lovely, yes," he confirmed. "The bouquet in its entirety will have no shortage of texture or dimension."

"Whatever you say," Hermione said, nearly all of it going over her head. "I defer to your expertise."

"You won't regret it," he assured her. "It will be stunning."

Hermione smiled to herself. Feeling brave, she said, "You used that word to describe me once."

He caught her eyes and treated her to a charming, one-cornered smile. "As lovely as our wedding flowers will be, you are far more deserving of it."


	19. Particular Appetites

Hermione stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, surveying her appearance and nervously adjusting her dress. She and Lucius were hosting an engagement party tonight, and guests were due to begin arriving within the half-hour.

It had been declared a semi-formal event on the invitations. Her dress was white (“You are the bride, after all,” Lucius had said when he suggested the color) with a dainty lace overlay and fell below the knee. She had managed to secure her curls at the nape of her neck, but a strand fell into her face here and there, and the truth was she did not have the patience to rectify the matter.

All these events were beginning to tire her, and truthfully, she was annoyed by how contrived they were. There had been the ball he had hosted at the Ministry’s request, now this engagement party, and he had mentioned a number of wedding-related events that would be occurring in the coming months, and then of course there was the Christmas party he hosted every year… Lucius described all of these to her as being grand in scale as well as style.

Hermione was perfectly willing to make an appearance at some event every now and then, but this endless parade of social obligations, the vast majority of which seemed to fall to the Malfoy family to organize, was simply not her preference.

Nonetheless, he had made a good point when he told her that a party celebrating their engagement would lessen the element of scandal and speculation that landed them in the gossip column of the Daily Prophet two to three times a week.

Hermione made her way downstairs, where Lucius was instructing the hired help on the final arrangements and confirming the menu with Fern. As she looked around, she noticed that the tables, chairs, and other accoutrements were not only present in the ballroom, but had spilled out onto the balcony as well.

As she approached him, she was struck by his choice of attire in two ways: firstly, he was wearing a standard Muggle suit; secondly, it was a shade of pale gray, which made her realize how often he wore black. This color and style of dress made the lines of his body more noticeable, instead of obscuring him in a seemingly shapeless pile of fabric, devoid of shadows or highlights. She was able to admire the long line of his legs, the exact width of his shoulders, and the way his torso tapered slightly into his waist.

“That suit flatters you,” she said when she had reached him and the staff had scattered to perform their various tasks.

He turned at her words and his eyes swept over her—not terribly quickly, but not slowly enough to make her uncomfortable—before landing, unblinking, on her face. “Your dress is also most becoming,” he replied smoothly, though his expression told her he was not as unaffected as his tone implied.

 _Damn,_ she thought as his gaze afforded her the opportunity to observe yet another way his garb complimented him: it brought out the color of his eyes in such a way as to make them appear brighter, sharper, and altogether more alluring.

After a very long moment—the longest they had ever locked eyes, she thought—Hermione smiled nervously and surveyed her surroundings. “It looks as though we’ll be accommodating many more people than were at the ball last month,” she observed.  
“Oh, yes,” he confirmed, “many more.”

“Exactly how many people did you invite?” Hermione asked, mentally tallying the tables and chairs, and realizing that there were dozens more outside, on the balcony and at the entrance to the gardens.

“Everyone,” Lucius said simply.

Her eyes shot back to him. “Everyone?” she repeated. When he nodded, she pressed, “Surely you can’t mean _everyone._ ”

“I do,” he assured her. “Time was I only entertained certain Wizarding families,” he said delicately, “but things have changed; now I must include them all at such events as these. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he continued, “the Malfoy name carries some weight. We are rather public figures.”

The extent of the guest list had been unknown to Hermione, and now that she was informed, she was not best pleased. “Are you like the Wizarding king or something?”

She had asked sarcastically, but he answered her straightforwardly. “Oh, not quite like a king,” he modestly replied. But then he said, “A duke or a marquess, perhaps.”

Hermione’s lips pressed together as the enormity of what her social duties as the wife of a Wizarding duke or marquess would be began to dawn on her. “I see,” came her stiff reply.

He overlooked her displeasure, though whether he did so by choice or by ignorance was unclear. “Our guests will be arriving soon,” he said. “We should make ourselves ready for the receiving line.”

“Receiving line,” she repeated in grim disbelief. “You must be joking.”

“Indeed, I am not,” he answered her. “At an event such as this one, where our guests attend with the sole purpose of offering us their congratulations, it is customary to greet each of them personally as they arrive.”

She sighed in exasperation, but managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Very well.”

Just as she feared, the formality of the receiving line made every interaction feel stilted and insincere. It did, however, offer Hermione a few instances of relief: first, it ensured that she had the chance to exchange words with Neville Longbottom, which might not otherwise have been the case, since he lacked the confidence to insert himself into existing conversations; second, it afforded her the opportunity to hear Lucius greet Harry and Ginny, and express his wish to the latter that they may speak again later in the evening (likely for the long-overdue apology he owed her); and lastly, it inspired George Weasley to perform a spectacular satire of the procedure, complete with an exaggerated bow that left his nose practically at his knees and a downright dandyish flourish of his hand. This left Hermione in helpless giggles, though Lucius seemed somewhat less than amused.

Just after George and Angelina had entered the party, Hermione’s eye was drawn to a tall, graceful figure entering the room -- a figure dressed entirely in black. Upon recognizing the person, a chill ran down her spine.

“Narcissa?” she discreetly murmured to Lucius in chagrin.

His own eye flitted to his former spouse in confirmation and, between greeting the next guest in line, replied, “I did say ‘everyone.’”

Hermione smiled through gritted teeth as she shook the hand of an elderly wizard she did not know. “Your ex-wife is not ‘everyone,’” she countered. Then, taking in her adversary’s wardrobe, she added dryly, “Her attire certainly makes a statement.”

Lucius smirked in amusement. “She does love to make a statement.”

As she went through the motions of receiving those in line, she observed Narcissa with a keen eye. Her dress was full-length, darker than a night without stars, with a dramatic ruffled collar and a low neckline. Her hair, as pale blonde as Lucius’, was swept into an elegant twist at the back of her head. Diamonds adorned her neck, wrists, and earlobes. She was the embodiment of refinement, and she carried herself with all the grace and confidence that Hermione lacked in such a formal setting.

A moment later, the woman in question was upon them. “Lucius,” she greeted him warmly, presenting him with her hand.

He bowed over it with a slightly sardonic smile. “Narcissa.”

“You’re looking well,” she observed, a hint of suggestion in her tone.

“You as well,” he returned, remaining cordial.

“It seems every witch and wizard in the country has turned out for your little soirée,” she said with a peculiar tone. “You must take it easy on the rest of us, darling, with an engagement like this, how can anyone hope to measure up?”

Lucius raised a quizzical brow. “Have you an occasion of your own to celebrate?” he inquired.

“Oh, Lucius!” she laughed, playfully resting a hand on his arm. This, Hermione noticed. “What a tease you are! You know very well I remain unattached.”

Clearing his throat, he at last directed her attention to his fiancée. “Narcissa, I’m sure you remember Miss Hermione Granger.”

She turned her eyes to Hermione, her face becoming a tight mask. “I’m sure I do,” she affirmed coolly, extending her hand.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione greeted her with a forced smile, politely shaking her hand.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Narcissa chuckled condescendingly, “please call me Narcissa. Why, we’re practically family, after all.”

Hermione felt just a touch of panic at the thought.

“And it’s Black now, at any rate.”

“You’ve taken your maiden name,” Lucius said, the height of his brows coinciding nicely with his surprised tone.

“Certainly!” she replied. “There can be only one Mrs. Malfoy.”

She had returned her gaze to Hermione, and the younger witch felt very much like she was a gazelle being sized up by a lioness.  
“Well, I’ve held up the line long enough,” Narcissa said. “Do find me later, Lucius, we haven’t spoken in ages.” And with that, she whirled away, her skirt rustling behind her.

“I think she made her statement perfectly clear,” Hermione observed primly.

They spent the first portion of the evening side-by-side, making conversation with his multitude of acquaintances. After an hour or so, they separated, and began seeking out their own friends. Hermione spoke at length with Neville; he animatedly told her all about his position as Herbology professor at Hogwarts and his calm but happy life with Hannah, who could not make it to the party due to an uncomfortable but not serious illness. She also spoke with George and Angelina, who were the only representatives of the Weasley clan present and, Hermione feared, the only members of said clan who were not upset with her for rejecting Ron.

Meanwhile, Lucius noticed that Harry had gone to retrieve a glass of punch for his wife and thus left her momentarily unattended. When he saw that Draco had detained him, and that the two were absorbed in what appeared to be a tense yet not immediately dangerous exchange, he took the opportunity to approach Ginny.

He came to stand by her side; she noticed him but said nothing. They watched the couples twirl around the ballroom floor for a moment before he spoke. “Would it surprise you to learn that I have a conscience?” he casually inquired.

She turned to look at him, the corners of her mouth beginning to turn up in amusement, but he did not meet her eye; instead he elected to continue staring ahead. “It would shock me to my very core,” she replied, returning her attention to the dance floor.

He detected the joking in her tone, and was grateful for it. When he resumed his speech, it was laden with regret. “I have been aggrieved by the thought of what you endured by my hand,” he admitted. She was taken aback by his candor, and he used her silence to elaborate. “I was an instrument of misfortune for many, but…” he trailed off, unable to adequately express the horror of what she had experienced as a result of his cowardice. At last, he turned his gaze to her, and he found that she met it fearlessly. “I did not know what the diary was at the time,” he said. “You must believe that.”

She nodded solemnly. “I do.” Her words did not quite communicate assurance; she simply confirmed what he said.

“Still,” he continued, “I knew it belonged to Lord Voldemort,” his voice lowered involuntarily at his former master’s name, as though speaking it aloud still made him nervous, “and I knew that it did not belong in the possession of a child. I put your safety at risk to ensure my own. I hope, one day, you can forgive me.”

She observed him carefully, her eyes narrowed, gauging his sincerity. “Make my friend happy,” she said finally, “and we’ll call it square.”

He held her gaze determinedly. “I shall daily endeavor to do so.”

Ginny smiled and nodded her approval. “Then we’re good.”

At the other end of the room, Hermione found herself without company for a blissful moment, and was enjoying the reprieve from her social duties as hostess. So, naturally, Narcissa chose that moment to impose her company on her successor. “How do you find Malfoy Manor, Hermione?” she drawled.

Her presence immediately put Hermione on edge, but she made a valiant attempt to disguise it. “It’s something else,” she replied, perhaps a little too brightly.

“Oh, it is that,” Narcissa agreed. “Has Lucius given you the grand tour?”

“No, I sort of explored it on my own.”

“Oh,” the elder witch sighed knowingly, “you haven’t seen the dungeons, then.”

Hermione felt a chill trickle down her spine for the second time in her short acquaintance with this woman and could no longer hide her discomfort. “I don’t feel the urge to see the where my friends were once held prisoner, believe it or not.”

Narcissa threw her head back, putting the diamonds that encircled her beautifully arched neck on grand display, and laughed. “No, no, dear,” she said, her voice still affected by mirth. “Not _those_ dungeons.”

Her agitation becoming increasingly visible, Hermione responded brusquely, “How many dungeons equip a standard manor?”

Narcissa bit her lip and, glancing side to side to ensure they were out of earshot, leaned in conspiratorially and murmured, “One for holding prisoners, as you said, and one to satisfy the master’s… um… _particular appetites._ ”

Hermione’s eyes were locked on Narcissa’s. She swallowed nervously. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, hating how high-pitched her voice came out.

“Come, come, my girl,” Narcissa said, condescension making a spectacular return, “they told me you were clever! I know you are young, but surely you are not _that_ naive.”

Hermione was now quite determined to bring the conversation to a close. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Narcissa was not going to allow that. “Well, then, my dear, let me enlighten you.” Her eyes found Lucius across the room, and Hermione’s followed. “Lucius likes to be in control. He likes power. More than that, he likes inflicting pain.” At Hermione’s distressed expression, she was quick to offer words to assure her confidante, though her catlike smile did just the opposite. “Oh, don’t worry, dear. Not _a lot_ of pain. Nothing you won’t heal from in a day or two. But his instruments are many, and… varied. I can personally attest to their uses, having been on the receiving end of all of them; every last one. Sometimes in a single day!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Why, I remember one time he chained me to the wall and—”

“Please, Narcissa,” Hermione firmly but politely interrupted. “I’ve managed to convince myself that being married to him won’t be so terrible. Please don’t disabuse me of the notion.” And with that, she left her future husband’s former wife behind her, striding towards the balcony for some fresh air.

On the way, she happened to pass Ginny at the buffet table, so she took her friend by the arm without so much as pausing and pulled her along.

“Um, okay?” Ginny said, though she didn’t resist. “I guess I didn’t really want that quiche.”

When they had reached the railing, Hermione gave a quick look around to make sure they would not be overheard and quietly exclaimed, “He’s a sadist!”

Ginny furrowed her brow in confusion. “What?”

“He’s a _sexual sadist!_ ” she hissed.

Her friend’s expression of befuddlement deepened. “ _What?_ ”

Hermione’s eyes widened in panicked exasperation. “ _Did I stutter?_ ”

“Calm down,” Ginny said soothingly. “Tell me what happened.”

She took a quick breath, but when she spoke her words still tumbled out in a rapid frenzy. “Narcissa just came up to me and started talking about dungeons and appetites and _instruments of torture!_ ”

Ginny’s face had been a mask of skepticism since Hermione had uttered Narcissa’s name. “Well, you should definitely believe every word his ex-wife says about him,” she replied dryly.

“Ginny!” Hermione whined. “This is serious!”

“No, it’s hilarious,” her friend argued. “You are doing precisely what Narcissa hoped you would. Honestly, Hermione, don’t you have any grasp of guile?”

She stared blankly at her friend for a beat before vehemently responding, “ _No!_ ”

“Her pride is hurt because her husband has moved on to someone younger, prettier, and generally more fun to be around. On top of that, she’s probably been watching him ogle you all night and failing miserably at directing his attention back to her. So what does she do instead? She saunters over to you and attempts to send you into a state of utter panic and distress. _And you let her!_ Get ahold of yourself!”

At last, Hermione seemed to be less certain of Lucius’ sexual deviance. “You really think that’s all it is?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” Ginny said slowly, nodding her head for emphasis. “But if you’re so worried about it, just ask him, for god’s sake!”

“Oh, sure,” Hermione tossed back, “I’ll just ask him! ‘Say, Lucius, do you happen to enjoy sadomasochism and twisted sex games?’”

Ginny merely shrugged as if to say, “Why not?”

Hermione blinked. “I need a drink,” she said, turning on her heel and heading inside.

“Have one for me,” Ginny called after her.

 

The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully enough. Lucius gave a short toast, thanking their guests for their presence and expressing his contentment and optimism at the prospect of their union, and punctuated it with a modest kiss on her cheek. Much to her frustration and embarrassment, his pretty words, proximity, and dashing gray suit transformed the demure gesture into something apparently worthy of a minor heart attack, despite her lingering unease at his alleged proclivities.

Perhaps because the days were growing shorter this time of year, making it seem later than it actually was, their guests began to trickle out by ten and everyone had left by eleven. Hermione was glad of this, being quite relieved to shed the role of hostess and eager to put the matter to rest, although she dreaded the actual conversation.

When they were settled in the study, Hermione let a few minutes pass in comfortable silence before tentatively introducing the subject. “Narcissa told me something tonight,” she began. “Something… um… interesting about you.”

He snorted. “I’m sure Narcissa has any number of ‘interesting’ things to say about me.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged carefully, “but this thing was… well… particularly interesting.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m listening,” he offered.

Of course, now that the moment was upon her, Hermione was at a loss for words. “Well…” she started, but then couldn’t continue. “Well, she said… um…”

He stared fixedly at her, somewhat amused but mostly impatient. It had been a long night for him, as well, she now realized.

She sighed and resolved to simply come out with it. “She said that you get a certain kind of gratification out of inflicting pain in the bedroom, only it’s not in the bedroom, it’s in your special torture chamber in the dungeon.”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he did not appear scandalized by the accusation, which greatly increased her anxiety. “Narcissa…” he trailed off as he thought of how to characterize his former spouse before finally ending with, “exaggerates.”

Hermione could only stare at him, frozen, her imagination refusing to even take a step down that road. “Exaggerates,” she repeated woodenly. When he made no response, she blinked slowly and asked, “How badly does she exaggerate?”

“Well, I’ve never seen the appeal of, ah, conducting that sort of business in a place so dreary and uncomfortable as a dungeon.”

She blinked again. “Somehow that doesn’t put me at ease.”

He smiled in amusement and put his feet up on the ottoman with a sigh. “Let us start at the beginning.”

“Oh, good,” she replied, somewhat sarcastically, but followed his lead by assuming a more comfortable position, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her.

“I have intimated to you that Narcissa and I did not have an affectionate relationship,” he began, “and that this led me to seek the company of other women.”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“One of these women was, shall we say, accomplished in the areas of bondage and sadomasochism.”

Hermione’s face lost most of its color. “Oh.”

“I received quite an education from this woman, to say the least. I considered her an expert in the field. So when she told me that most women would enjoy such practices, once they'd been initiated, I believed her."

Hermione's eyebrows rose as she understood. "Oh," she said again, this time with an entirely different tone. "So you tried to introduce that kind of play to Narcissa, and she..."

"Did not take it well," Lucius finished. "To her credit, she agreed to try it—something that left me completely stunned, if I'm being honest. But once we had begun, she..."

Hermione pressed her lips together sympathetically. "Did not take it well," she finished.

"I suppose she harbors some resentment over the experience," Lucius mused. "And now, of course, she has new resentment over the fact that you've stolen her husband."

Hermione laughed a single, scoffing kind of laugh. "Rubbish!" she argued. "She let you go months before I came around!"

“I didn’t say it was logical.”

Hermione thought of something and was too curious not to ask. "Why did you try that with Narcissa? I interpreted what you've shared with me to mean that, once you’d had Draco, you'd accepted your relationship with her wasn't going to include... that."

"You interpreted correctly," he said, "but, you see, it was never my first choice to have mistresses. I would have preferred being faithful to my wife. Call me traditional," he joked as an explanation. "So when I thought I had found a way for my wife and I to connect to one another..."

"I see," Hermione said. Then, after a moment, "I'm sorry that didn't work out for you."

Lucius smirked again, playfully meeting her gaze. "It was for the best."

"Just one more question," she asked, trying to pretend she wasn't blushing. "You enjoyed it then, with that woman."

"It was different," he said. "It was exciting."

"And now?" she prodded.

"You want to know if I will be satisfied by a sexual relationship with you that does not include whips and chains," he summarized, "is that it?"

She took a beat to recover from his use of the word "sex" before responding. "Correct."

He thought for a moment. "Personally, I have only found a need for such practices when the experience would otherwise have been inadequately stimulating; perhaps due to a lack of connection with or strong desire for my partner." After a moment, he concluded: "You needn't worry, Hermione."


	20. Specific Thoughts

Lucius and Hermione sipped their coffee in tense silence; at least, it felt tense to her. He had told her not half an hour before that Draco would be coming for breakfast. Hermione supposed she shouldn’t be surprised; while Lucius and Draco didn’t seem on particularly affectionate terms, they were, after all, father and son. She was probably lucky she hadn’t had to endure a Malfoy family meal already.

Still, she couldn’t say that any part of her was looking forward to it. As he read the Daily Prophet, her attention flitted between a book on the history of elfish enslavement, the doorway that connected the breakfast room to the rest of the house, and the grey, dreary view outside the windows.

Finally, the heavy thud of the front doors echoed through the halls, closely followed by the clicking heels of expensive shoes. Hermione’s nervous anticipation warped into slight nausea, which worsened when Draco entered the room.

“You’re late,” Lucius observed crisply, not looking up from his newspaper.

Draco’s lips twisted slightly, but he declined to comment. “Father,” he greeted instead, and then, turning his gaze on Hermione, “Granger.”

“Draco,” she returned coolly, cautiously eyeing him sideways for the briefest of moments before looking away.

Fern entered the room with a fresh tray for Draco, who did not acknowledge her, and Hermione’s face darkened. She had only recently succeeded in getting Lucius into the habit of treating Fern with what Hermione considered basic manners, so to see Draco so callously ignore her was quite vexing.

“Hermione,” Lucius said, and her attention was brought back to the awkward social situation at hand. “Draco would like to stay at the manor for a few days.”

Her eyes widened and whatever color had been in her cheeks faded dramatically. Before she could come up with a diplomatic reply, she had already blurted out, “Why?”

“My flat is being remodeled,” Draco replied with a smug smile. “I’m upgrading my bathroom.”

She returned his smirk with a plainly insincere one of her own. “How special for you.”

“But first,” Lucius interjected with a warning tone, leveling his steel gaze on his son, “he has something to say, don’t you, Draco?”

The younger Malfoy’s expression soured and he sighed unpleasantly, turning a bored gaze to Hermione. What followed was a wooden and obviously scripted speech. “I apologize for the way I’ve treated you,” he began, delivering his lines as though he were reading from a textbook on a subject that held absolutely no interest for him. “My behavior was ungentlemanly,” he continued, and his emphasis on the word communicated that he was mocking its use by whoever had originally said it to him, presumably Lucius. “It will never happen again.”

Hermione didn’t believe him for a second.

“So,” Lucius said, “now that that’s done, Hermione, do you consent to Draco staying for the week?”

“Consent to staying in my own bloody house,” Draco added.

“Qui-et,” his father warned, drawing out the word and harshly enunciating the ‘t,’ but his eyes softened when he returned them to Hermione and waited for her answer.

She squirmed uncomfortably, wanting very badly to say no but not feeling entirely like she could, even though Lucius had done her the courtesy of asking her permission. “Yes, fine,” she hotly agreed.

Draco, already bored with the subject, took a sip from his cup and made a disgusted face. “Fern!” he shouted, and she instantly appeared by his side. “This cappuccino is too dry,” he said, shoving it into her hands. She vanished into the kitchen to prepare him another.

Hermione stared at him in outrage and borderline disbelief. “Do you have to be so rude to her?” she hissed.

He merely furrowed his brow in response and shrugged his shoulders, clearly bemused and annoyed by her complaint.

Scoffing in exasperation, she stood and swept her book up into her arms. “I’ll be in the study,” she said to Lucius, anger making her voice low and tight.

 

Sometime just before lunch, Lucius found Hermione still reading. He took a step into the room but didn’t fully enter it. “I’ve got to go out for a few hours,” he said casually.

She shot up in her chair, involuntarily snapping her book shut, and affixed him with a fearful stare. “What?”

“I have a meeting with Cornelius, and after that an appointment with my financial advisor.”

“Are you _insane?_ ” she whispered shrilly, gracelessly tumbling out of her chair and rapidly approaching him. “You can’t leave me here with Hands McGee!”

“You’ll be fine,” he replied offhandedly. “He wouldn’t dare try anything. He knows what I’d do to him if he did.”

“And that would be?” Hermione prodded, realizing he was probably right but hardly feeling better about the situation.

He playfully smiled at her as he pulled on his gloves. “Make him a member of the Wizarding Boys’ Choir.”

“Lucius, I really don’t think—”

“Listen,” he began in a somewhat pleading tone, “he’s been a deplorable human being and he’s misused you abominably, but he has apologized.” Here he paused and met her eyes. “And he is my son. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t think he could be better.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and exhaled sharply through her nostrils. “Fine,” she conceded begrudgingly. “But if he so much as looks at me in a way I don’t care for, I’ll castrate him myself.”

“Fair enough.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

Her eyes lingered on him as he walked away. She was far from satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, but she felt unsure about exactly how much she had a right to demand. Draco was his son, and on some level she knew their engagement would throw the younger Malfoy into her company from time to time. She felt confident that he would be of no further danger to her, now that she was engaged to his father. His past actions had yet to be answered for, and there was no disputing that; but surely that matter was hers to settle, and not Lucius’. She and Draco were both adults and would have to hammer out their own issues. And yet she found herself feeling ignored by Lucius, her valid concerns overlooked.

She supposed whatever needed to occur between her and Draco for the sake of peace would have to come up eventually, perhaps even before the end of his stay, though she hoped not.

 

Hermione heard Draco moving about the house a few times throughout the day, but was fortunate enough not to cross paths with him. When Lucius arrived home for dinner, Draco brusquely informed them that he would be dining out and disappeared. She found herself privately thinking that if his visit continued in this vein, she could endure it just fine.

She and Lucius chatted amiably through their meal. His meeting with the minister had gone well enough; Cornelius wanted him to be a more vocal proponent of the Preservation of Magic Act (more commonly referred to as the Marriage Law), which he had agreed to do to a reasonable extent and with the caveat that no such burden be placed on Hermione. She was pleased with his consideration of her. On the suggestion of his financial advisor, he had moved a not insignificant sum of his wealth from one investment to another and expected to see a sizable return over the course of the coming year. Hermione had spent the day reading about the history of elfish enslavement in England and across the globe, as well as English law regarding such. He was supportive and interested, if politely so.

Afterwards, they walked down the hall together for their nightly communion in his study. This was now their established practice, and while the conversation was always pleasant and did something to aid the progress of their relationship, however minutely, the routine itself was as comforting to Hermione as the rest of it. It offered her a sense of stability that she needed in order to feel at ease in any given circumstance.

When the hour grew late, Lucius accompanied her to her bedroom door, as their pattern dictated. She had begun to enjoy the proximity to her with which he walked; she could just feel the heat of his body, and if they were one inch closer, their knuckles might brush. For the moment, she was quite satisfied by the mere idea that it _might_ happen; she felt no tangible desire for anything more.

When they reached her door, rather than lean in for a quick peck on the cheek as usual, Lucius stood before her for a long moment, leaving her wondering if he had something more to say. He appeared to be in no hurry; he merely stood there, maintaining eye contact.

She responded in kind, unsure of what else to do.

Finally, he reached for her hand, and brought it into the space between them. He gazed down at it, this thumb gently sweeping over her palm. “I’ve often admired your hands,” he murmured unexpectedly. “The angles of your fingers as you hold a quill,” he elaborated, turning it over and tracing her knuckles with the tips of his own fingers. “The way they spread out like a web to hold up whatever book you’re reading,” he continued, gently moving them to recreate the position he described. He turned it face-up again. “You have delicate, yet capable, hands.” He ran his thumb over the fleshy section at the base of her palm, up to the veins across her wrist.

Hermione froze. The hairs on her arm were standing on end, and she knew that he saw it. She knew he must know what his touch was doing to her; there was, therefore, nothing to be lost by admitting it. But, for whatever reason, she found herself incapable of participating in the dance he had initiated, however badly she wanted it to continue. And she _did_ want it to continue.

He had challenged her frame of mind by acting on his own inclinations, and she couldn’t even utter a word, let alone return his touch.

He waited for several beats, and then seemed to resign himself to her lack of response, although he smiled as he released her hand. “Goodnight, Hermione,” he said simply, acknowledging what she had not said.

She had to take a small gulp of air before answering him, as apparently she had not drawn breath for a few moments. “Goodnight,” she almost whispered.

He gave her his standard kiss on the cheek, turned, and left.

 

Hermione had gone to bed at first befuddled by what had transpired, and then disappointed in how she had reacted. The next morning when she awoke, she was still experiencing the same emotions. Lucius had reached out to her, in a way; he had attempted to close the ever-present gap between them, and he had done it in as non-threatening and gentlemanly way as could be imagined. He had done everything right, and her stiffness had probably ensured that it would be his last attempt for a good while.

Frustrated and dispirited, she rolled over in bed, took her wand from her nightstand, and spoke into the tip. “Hermione Granger interrupts her own progress once again,” she said dejectedly, and a luminous otter ballooned out of her wand to carry the message to Ginny.

She waited a few minutes, feeling rather sorry for herself, until her friend’s Patronus, a silvery horse, trotted into her room, passing through her window like a ghost.

“What do you mean?” the horse replied, sounding slightly annoyed. This, of course, escaped Hermione’s notice.

She brought her wand to her lips again. “Lucius tried to initiate something with me last night – nothing huge, but something – and I completely mucked it up. I just stood there like an idiot. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Not much time passed – less than her first response had taken to arrive – when Ginny herself _popped_ into Hermione’s bedroom.

Hermione bolted up in bed. “Ginny!” she exclaimed. She had not been expecting an actual appearance from her friend.

"That's _it_ ," she began, pacing three steps in either direction in front of Hermione’s bed. "I have _had it_ with this insecure behavior! What's come over you? You're _Hermione Jane Granger._ Brightest student at Hogwarts, cleverest witch of your age, war hero, for fuck's sake! Where are your lady balls?"

Hermione could only stare, wide-eyed. Ginny was hardly known for keeping calm under provocation, but this seemed a bit over-the-top.

"If you would just put a little effort into it," the redhead continued, storming into the closet and returning with the olive green sweater dress they'd picked out together, "if you would just show yourself off,” she said, shaking the dress in front of her, “you could have that man eating out of the palm of your hand by Thursday."

"What's Thursday?"

Ginny's frustration reached peak levels. "It doesn't matter!" she spat. "It's just a random day not long from now, that's my point!”

Hermione was becoming a little concerned. “Are you maybe just a teensy bit hormonal today?” she inquired as gently as she could.

Ginny pressed her lips together for a moment before responding. “I might be!” She flung the dress menacingly into her friend’s lap. “I’m still right! Now >go down there," she growled through gritted teeth, "and strut your stuff like the bad bitch you are!"

Hermione looked as though all of this was dawning on her for the first time. Ginny was right; Hermione had no reason to be insecure. She _was_ a name in the Wizarding community, and for good reason. She _was_ clever, bright, and brave; the government _had_ officially named her a war hero and had rewarded her accordingly; and she _did_ look phenomenal in the dress now lying across her thighs. She was a prize, and any man – Malfoy or not – should be delighted to be marrying her. How had she forgotten all this about herself? She blinked once, twice, then returned her attention to Ginny and said, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Ginny replied, still somewhat exasperated. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go cry and eat everything.” She popped back out of the room.

Armed with a new confidence, Hermione got out of bed, hummed through her shower, did a little something with her hair and makeup, and slipped on the dress.

The heels of the accompanying tall boots clicked pleasantly on the marble floors as she made her way to the breakfast room. Just before she entered, she caught herself tugging absently at the hem, which was considerably shorter than she was accustomed to wearing, but she stopped herself. _Don’t. You look great. Strut!_ She put a small smile on her face and swept into the room.

She approached Lucius from behind and had to walk past him to get to the coffee tray, which was near the opposite end of the table. “Good morning,” she cheerfully greeted him as she passed.

She was met with silence, which she interpreted as him being speechless. A subtle glance in his direction as she poured her coffee confirmed her suspicions. His eyes were locked on her – and not her face.

He blinked as though to clear his head. “Good morning,” he finally replied. He seemed to consider what to say next. “You look nice,” he gently observed.

She smiled, pouring some cream into her cup. “Thank you,” she sweetly replied.

Again, it took him longer than usual to speak. “What’s the occasion?”

She shrugged casually. “No occasion. I just felt like looking nice today.” She stirred her coffee as she slowly walked back towards her chair, but didn’t sit. “I might go shopping in Diagon Alley today, though.” She brought her cup to her mouth for a sip.

“Oh?” he politely responded, sounding focused on the conversation even as his eyes were glued to the bottom half of Hermione’s dress, where it faithfully traced the curves of her hips. “What is it you need?”

“Well,” she began teasingly, “a bride needs a dress, doesn’t she?”

That caused his gaze to shoot up to her eyes. “Oh,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. Then, he regained his usual control. “Well, you can’t go to Diagon Alley for that,” he informed her. “Madam Malkin is quite skilled at uniforms and daily wear, but your wedding gown has to be something else entirely. It has to be exquisite.” His eyes fell quickly down her body once again before returning to her face with an unreadable smile. “We’ll have to make an appointment at Madame Renaud’s in Paris.”

“Paris,” she repeated with a flirtatious tone. “Of course, I should have guessed. Only the finest for a Malfoy wedding.”

“I’ll contact her today; it normally takes several weeks to secure an appointment. Perhaps we could go together,” he added. “Make a weekend out of it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Take a trip together?” The suggestion took her aback, and it came across in her voice, as well as her expression, she was sure. Shrewdly, she wondered if perhaps he was playing with her, trying to test the strength of her new self-assured attitude. Before she could decide how to respond, Draco sauntered into the room. He had been so absent the day before, she had honestly forgotten he was in the manor. She instantly took a seat to hide her dress; she wasn’t exactly keen on him ogling her in her form-fitting apparel.

After he demanded that Fern fill his plate and bring him a cappuccino, not a word was spoken by anyone. Lucius had returned to his newspaper, Draco ate as though he was alone at the table, and Hermione sat perfectly still, drowning in the awkwardness.

This continued for what felt like ages, until she decided that allowing Draco a glimpse of her provocative attire was preferable to enduring one more minute in that atmosphere. “Lucius,” she softly began, “I think I’ll go to Diagon Alley all the same. There may be some books about house elves I haven’t read yet.”

“Didn’t think there was a book in existence you hadn’t read, Granger,” Draco interjected before his father had a chance to answer her. “Seeing as that’s all you _ever_ do,” he finished with a sneer.

“I’m sure it must seem that way to someone who’s only read _four,_ ” she quickly retorted.

“Ooh, hit me where it hurts,” he returned sarcastically.

Ignoring him, she said to Lucius, “I’ll be back before dinner.”

“I look forward to it,” he replied, meeting her gaze.

Hermione knew she hadn’t left Lucius’ field of vision before a blush stained her cheeks, and but hoped to escape Draco’s notice. She failed; his expression was first one of textbook male appreciation, then one of pouting, querulous frustration.

 

When she returned to the manor several hours later, her feet tired and her arms full of books, Draco was blessedly dining out again. Fern took her purchases up to her room and Hermione joined Lucius for dinner. A question had been marinating in her brain all day, a question she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to put to him; finally she committed herself to asking, but not, god forbid, at the dinner table.

When they had arrived in the study, Hermione fell into her chair and pulled off her boots, wiggling her toes with a contented sigh. She tucked her feet under her just as Lucius appeared by her side with her watered-down brandy. “Thank you,” she said, and he took his seat beside her.  
The first few minutes passed in easy silence, while Hermione tried to formulate an introduction to her question. Before she had landed on anything, Lucius spoke.

“I thought of you often in your absence,” he confided.

She considered for a moment whether or not to deliver the reply that had leapt into her mind. Deciding that it could be a perfect foray into the topic she wanted to discuss, she elected to do so. “It seemed like you thought of me a fair amount in my presence, as well.”

A smile touched his lips. He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t need to.

"I couldn’t help but notice,” she continued, “it looked as though those thoughts might have been somewhat… specific."

"They were," he acknowledged, still smiling.

She waited a moment, but he didn't elaborate. "Would you share them with me?"

He shook his head, his smile splitting into a charmingly shy grin, and turned his eyes to his glass, admiring the way the firelight turned his brandy bright gold. "I'm fairly certain you don't want to hear them."

"I'm asking, aren't I?" she playfully prodded. "Tell me.”

He met her eyes and studied her for a few moments, trying to decide if she was as confident as she sounded. Finally, he opted to take her at her word. He held her gaze, the better to gauge her reaction. "I was thinking about…” he trailed off for a moment, as though considering how best to articulate, before boldly finishing with, “ease of access.”

She had steadied herself to hear a provocative answer, wanting to finally get past the awkwardness and discomfort she experienced every time he said something even remotely suggestive. She had invited the interaction knowing the direction it would inevitably take. And while she found that she was, thankfully, not feeling any awkwardness, she also found that, for all her steadying, she was still unprepared for the _other_ effect his words had on her. She was beginning to realize that she found Lucius sexy, even when he was being still and silent and not even looking at her. But now... Well, now he was looking in her eyes and talking about _ease of access_ and damn it if his voice didn't sound like melted chocolate--

 _Melted chocolate?_ Hermione gave herself a mental slap. _Did you really just think those words? What is **wrong** with you?_ She brought her attention back to the situation at hand and realized that she was rapidly approaching the moment when she would have waited too long to respond. _Oh god, say something. Say something!_ "Oh."

_‘Oh.’ Brilliant. Well done, seriously. 'Oh.' Great fucking job._

Lucius laughed softly through his nose, returning his gaze to his glass. "I told you, you wouldn’t want to hear it." His reply was teasing, but he couldn't keep a hint of resignation from his voice.

Surprisingly, she managed to come up with a decent response. "I didn't mind hearing it," she softly contradicted him, her voice inexplicably taking on a suggestive quality of its own.

His eyes were drawn back to hers as though by a magnet. They locked gazes, six kinds of communication buzzing between them, and Hermione started getting warm, her heart beating faster, and thought to herself that if he walked over to her and started touching her, she wouldn't stop him.

"Fern!" Draco shouted from somewhere outside the room, and the moment was broken. "Make me something to eat!"

Lucius' head fell onto the back of his chair as he pressed his lips together and growled in frustration. After a heavy sigh, he asked, "Do you remember how I didn’t mind that Draco was here?"

The corners of Hermione's mouth twitched in amusement. "Yes."

He brought his brandy to his lips and said, "I’ve changed my mind."


	21. Friends, Lovers, or Nothing

The next morning, Draco slept in, and so Hermione and Lucius were blissfully alone at breakfast. Having finally reclaimed her confidence, Hermione was feeling much less shy than had been her habit. She simply followed her thoughts where they took her and wasn’t considering her words before she spoke them. 

“Where will we go on our honeymoon?” she asked him, resting her chin in one hand and drumming the nails of her other on the table.

“Anywhere you like,” he answered indulgently. “Italy, Spain, the Virgin Islands…”

“The Virgin Islands,” she repeated, “now there’s an idea. A fitting one, given my near-virginal level of experience.”

Lucius chuckled in response. “You shouldn’t worry about that.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she laughed. “No one I’ve been with can stand up as competition. Not even the mystery third man.”

“Hmm,” he acknowledged, losing some of his enthusiasm for the conversation.

“Once I reveal his identity to you, you’ll know all there is to know about my history,” she continued.

“I’m all ears,” he said, though he seemed less than eager to hear it.

This, of course, escaped Hermione’s notice. Blushing, she said, “It’s Harry.”

His brow furrowed, and he blinked twice. He seemed to be struggling to understand her. “Harry Potter?” he asked.

“The very same,” she confirmed. She did not notice his expression becoming more and more surly. “It was stupid. I had just broken up with Ron, and he and Ginny were fighting, and next thing you know…” She shrugged. “It was just the once, but still, when you’ve only been with three people, you kind of have to count them all—” She broke off when she looked at him. “What’s the matter?”

A storm was brewing in his face, and it took him several moments to speak. “Am I to understand,” he began dangerously, “that you maintain a close relationship with one of your ex-lovers?”

“I—” Hermione stammered, her brow furrowed and her head shaking, “he’s not—” Still she couldn’t string her thoughts together. “It’s not like that,” she said.

“You are not to see him anymore,” he said flatly.

“What?” Hermione said, incredulous.

“It is entirely inappropriate,” he maintained, although his acrimony made it clear that it was not societal standards with which he was concerned. “He cannot remain in your circle. It is incomprehensible.”

“He’s my best friend!” she protested. “He’s the husband of my _other_ best friend! You can’t expect me to cut him out of my life.”

“I can’t?” Lucius asked coolly, his eyes as hard as steel.

Hermione’s face turned dark. “I _won’t_ ,” she said with finality.

His jaw tightened, and everything about his stance was screaming that he would not back down. “We shall see,” he said ominously, and left the room.

 

Hermione had no plans for the day, but she wanted to put space between herself and Lucius, so she left the manor to have a cup of coffee at her favorite Muggle café. She made that experience last a full half-hour, but at the end of it was still not ready to return. Instead, she decided to walk around Diagon Alley and window shop.

She made herself pass by Flourish & Blott’s without entering; she had a rule for herself that she could not buy any new books until at least half of her latest purchases were read. Since she had not met her quota, she quickened her step before her resolve could weaken.

Some time later she found herself standing outside Madam Malkin’s. She looked at the mannequins in the window; one wore a set of school robes, another a pair of standard dress robes, and another wore a long, lilac gown.

Hermione pondered on the shade and style for a moment; she had not put any thought into bridesmaid dresses. Come to think of it, she had not even chosen her bridesmaids. Ginny would be her matron of honor, of course; that much was a given. She could ask Luna, she decided; they were no longer in close contact, but fighting an actual battle side-by-side with a person has a way of bonding you for life. She could also ask Angelina; Hermione was an unofficial Weasley, and as George’s wife, she and Angelina were practically in-laws.

How many bridesmaids would she need, she wondered? How many groomsmen would Lucius have?

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around to see Ginny standing before her. “Hi!” she greeted her with a smile, but in the next instant she was gasping as her friend slapped her across the face, hard.

“You two-faced slag,” Ginny rumbled, her voice low and heavy with anger.

Hermione stared at her in shock. “Ginny,” she breathed, not knowing where this assault had come from.

“I can’t believe you looked me in the face and pretended to be my friend,” Ginny said, shuddering all over. “Did you really think I’d never find out?”

Suddenly, she understood. Her heart fell into her stomach like an ice-cold stone as the realization sank in. “Ginny,” she said again in horror, reaching out to her without thinking.

Ginny shrank away from her. “Don’t touch me,” she spat, her lips curled into a disgusted sneer. “Don’t come near me. Don’t come near my husband, don’t come near my child.” At this last, she placed a hand on her belly and her face broke. Tears filled her eyes.

Hermione’s own eyes filled as well. “Ginny, please,” she beseeched, her voice small and frail.

“ _No_ ,” Ginny cried through clenched teeth, her tears spilling down her cheeks. “ _Don’t._ Don’t _ever_ speak to me again.”

Presumably not trusting herself to Apparate, she spun around and walked away. Hermione could do nothing but watch her go.

 

“Lucius!” Hermione shouted as she stormed through the doors of the manor. “Lucius Malfoy, come here this instant!”

He rounded the corner, a puzzled look on his face. “Hermione, what on earth--?”

“You told her!” she accused hotly. She had summoned up anger to drown out her overwhelming despair, and to her embarrassment and disappointment, it was already slipping away, leaving only sadness behind. “I can’t believe you told her,” she said, her voice growing small.

“What?” he asked as he continued his journey across the room, obviously not understanding her. “Told who?”

“Who do you think?” Hermione spat at him. “Ginny! I just saw her in Diagon Alley. She called me a two-faced slag and said she never wanted to see me again. She was my friend.” The tears came again and, knowing she had no prayer of stopping them, she didn’t try. “She was my best friend, and now she loathes me. And she’ll never let me near Harry again, but that’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?” Her anger came surging back, and she eyed him with contempt. “I can’t _believe_ you did this to me!”

“Hermione,” he said with great concern, “I haven’t said a word.”

At this, she scoffed. “Really?” she challenged him derisively. “Well, I haven’t told anyone but you, so unless you’re suggesting that Harry conveniently lost his bloody mind and told his eight-months-pregnant wife on the _same day_ I lost my bloody mind and told you...”

“Hermione, I swear to you, I haven’t--” he suddenly broke off, a thought having struck him, and his face went dark. Gritting his teeth, he muttered something.

“What?” Hermione impatiently demanded, not having heard him.

“ _Draco,_ ” he repeated.

“Draco?” Hermione repeated skeptically, unable to thoroughly process the idea as she had been so certain that Lucius had been the one to spill her secret.

“Yes,” he said. “I passed him in the hall after breakfast this morning; he must have overheard us. It’s the only explanation. Obviously you didn’t tell Ginny; and I promise you, Hermione, neither did I.”

Hermione only looked at him, her arms folded protectively across her chest, unsure of what to believe.

“Wait here,” he said, and Disapparated.

Hermione waited, turning to and fro as she did, trying not to think about what had transpired at Diagon Alley, not wanting to dissolve into tears again. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, perhaps five minutes, when she heard a _pop._

Lucius had reappeared, gripping a hunched-over Draco by the back of the neck. “Now what _exactly_ ,” he began, baring his teeth and enunciating every syllable, “did you tell her?”

The younger Malfoy wrestled away from his father and straightened his spine in defiance. “It isn’t complicated,” he spat. “I told the She-Weasel that Little Miss Perfect shagged her husband,” he admitted brazenly. “She had the right to know.”

Hermione was stunned, though she wasn’t sure why. Draco was a nasty, scheming viper, and this was completely believable of him. “Oh, _please!_ ” she shouted once she had come back to herself, charging him and violently pushing his chest. “Don’t even _try_ to pretend,” she continued, shoving him again, “that you did this for her benefit! You’ve never thought of anyone but yourself in your whole, miserable _life!_ ”

With her last word, she lunged at him, but Lucius stepped in between them. “I don’t suppose,” he said over his shoulder, keeping a struggling Hermione away from his son, “you imparted upon Mrs. Potter the time or circumstances under which this regrettable event occurred?”

Draco shrugged one shoulder in the most cavalier way he could manage. “Why should I?”

“She thinks this happened _recently?_ ” Hermione asked, stunned anew. “Does she think it’s _still_ happening?”

Draco’s silence served as his answer.

Her draw dropped to the floor. “You are _unfathomable!_ ” she shrieked, lunging at him again, but Lucius held her back.

“You will make this right,” Draco’s father told him firmly.

“I will not,” he argued confidently.

But then, Lucius released his hold on Hermione and advanced on Draco so quickly that she didn’t even have the chance to absorb the fact that she was no longer being restrained. He gripped the fabric of Draco’s shirt and pushed him up against the nearest wall, the younger man’s back making contact with a _thud_. “You have done harm to my fiancée,” Lucius began, his voice low and menacing, “and you will _make it right._ ” At last, Draco appeared to me taking his father seriously. “If I have not received direct communication from Mrs. Potter by dinnertime that you have told her the truth -- the _whole_ truth -- mark my words, boy, you will regret it.”

He released his son with disgust. “When you return here, have a care that you stay out of our sight,” he muttered venomously. Draco Disapparated.

Lucius remained in the same spot, not looking at Hermione, and what she had just witnessed had taken all the wind out of her sails. She no longer felt righteously indignant; rather, she felt like she had wronged Lucius. “I’m sorry I assumed it was you,” she said quietly.

A beat passed, then two. “Yes,” he said, turning slightly towards her but still not meeting her eyes. “You were rather quick to think the worst of me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, feeling ashamed of herself. “But when we were arguing, when I said I wouldn’t cut Harry out of my life, you said ‘We’ll see.’”

At this, he lowered his head and sighed. “I often have to have the last word,” he explained. Then, finally, he brought his gaze to hers. “I rarely mean it.”

She shyly took a few steps towards him, stopping at arm’s length. After a moment, she tentatively reached for his sleeve, and gently fingered the fabric at his cuff.

He slowly turned until he was facing her head-on, took the single step needed to close the distance between them, and gathered her into his arms. “I am accustomed to having my way,” he acknowledged, “but I wouldn’t go about getting it by hurting you.”

She rested her hands on his arms and nestled her head into his shoulder, but said nothing. She believed him. She didn’t know if that made her foolish, but there it was.

“We’ll set it right,” he assured her. “If Draco doesn’t correct this, I will. Everything will be alright.”

Hermione pulled away just a bit and held up her little finger. “Swear?”

Lucius looked down at her gesture and furrowed his brows in consternation. “What in the world is that?”

She laughed once. “It’s a Muggle thing,” she said with a shrug. “It’s called a pinky swear. It’s like a promise.”

Still looking confused, he slowly held up his own little finger.

She hooked her pinky around his for a moment, and then let it go.

He laughed quietly through his nose at the silly Muggle practice, placed a kiss on her forehead and said, “Come. Let’s have a small drink and you can tell me why I’ve nothing to fear from your friend Harry Potter.”

 

In the study, drink in hand, Hermione did her best to explain to Lucius that while what had occurred between Harry and herself had been sex, it hadn’t been sexual. She had just broken up with Ron that day and was devastated (though now, in hindsight, she rolled her eyes at how silly it was to be devastated over losing Ron). Harry and Ginny had had an enormous fight and had technically broken up as well. Hermione, not yet knowing this, went to Harry’s flat to talk to him about Ron. He then told her about Ginny. They sat down together, drowned their sorrows, and one thing, as it so often does, led to another.

“We were sad and lonely and drunk,” Hermione explained. “It was the most ridiculous thing ever. The next morning, we looked at each other and we both knew that it was never going to happen again. He fixed things with Ginny that same day, and honestly, Lucius, it’s been like it _never happened._ We’ve never even talked about it, because there’s nothing to talk about. It doesn’t _matter._ It didn’t change anything for either of us.”

He had listened intently and now nodded, mulling it over. “Why did you tell me?” he asked.

Hermione sighed. Why, indeed? If only she had kept it to herself… “Well, you knew I had been with three men,” she began, “and you knew about two of them. I figured eventually you’d want to hear about the third. And I suppose…” she trailed off, thinking. “I suppose sharing secrets with you made me feel like we were friends.” She looked up at him apologetically. “Sometimes I have to remind myself that we’re supposed to be more than friends. If I had been thinking of you as my fiancé, I would have known better than to treat it so casually.”

Before he could respond, Fern came into the room and delivered a rolled-up piece of parchment.

“This just arrived by owl for you, Master.”

“Thank you, Fern.” The elf skittered out of the room and Lucius unrolled it. “It’s from Ginny,” he said.

Hermione leapt out of her chair and snatched the note from his hands.

  
Draco told me everything.  
I need time.  
Ginny  


When she finished reading, Hermione and Lucius locked eyes. She exhaled, nodding, and handed it back to him.

He read it himself and set it aside. He looked at Hermione, who appeared upset. “It’s good news,” he told her.

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“You can’t expect her to forgive you right away,” he gently informed her.

“No, I know that. And I don’t. It’s just…” She swallowed, trying to clear the lump in her throat, and helplessly shrugged. “I miss her.”

 

Her spirits being as depressed as they were, Hermione spent the rest of the day alone, reading. She did join Lucius for dinner, but found her appetite somewhat lacking. She was grateful that he did not press her for conversation; when they migrated to his study, they sat comfortably by the fire, sipping their brandy in silence.  
More than once, Hermione found herself wishing she was sitting on the same piece of furniture next to him, rather than in her own chair some three feet away. Then she could rest her head on his shoulder, or hold his hand, or simply enjoy the proximity. It was normally words that brought them close, but since she had none to give, she felt disconnected from him, and she didn’t care for it.

But his own chair, identical to hers, was not large enough to accommodate them both, so she remained.

It wasn’t until almost eleven o’clock, when she brought the back of her hand up to hide her yawn, that he spoke. “Bedtime?”

She nodded. “Yeah,” she softly answered.

He rose from his chair as she set her glass on the small table between them, and before she could stand, he held out his hand to assist her. She took it, expecting him to let go of her when she was on her feet, but he didn’t. He led her from the room, all the while gently holding her hand. She recognized that she was already in a state of high emotion, but as she felt the warmth of his hand in hers and gazed at his shoulders and the back of his blonde head, she was overcome with tenderness for Lucius; so much so that her eyes began to sting. She was careful not to look at him as she fell in step beside him, but gave his hand the barest squeeze of gratitude.

When they reached her room, he kissed her cheek. “Goodnight,” he said, releasing her hand.

“Goodnight,” she replied with a small smile, and turned towards her door.

“Hermione?”

She stopped and faced him again.

He had a peculiar look on his face, his eyes slightly narrowed as he gazed into hers, as though he were trying to decipher her answer so he wouldn’t have to ask the question. “Would…” he began, but trailed off, unsure how to continue. “Would it be alright if I—”

“Yes,” Hermione said, perhaps a little too eagerly.

He slowly blinked, then took a step. He took another, so they were toe-to-toe.

She could feel the heat from his body. Her ears began to hum.

He leaned towards her, his hands landing on her waist.

Their breath mingled before their lips connected.

They lost track of time; it could have been a few seconds or a few minutes. One hand was on his chest, the other behind his neck, but she couldn’t remember putting them there. Someone could have walked right up to them and they never would have noticed.

It was soft and firm; smooth and rough; the kind of kiss that makes you dizzy, but you don’t realize it until you stop.

It was Lucius who finally pulled away, just an inch. “Perhaps that will help you remember,” he whispered, his breath caressing her face, “I am not your friend.”  
Hermione couldn’t speak, so she simply nodded.

“I should go,” he said, stepping away.

“Why?” she managed to get out, her voice breathy.

“Because I want to treat you like a lady,” he replied, his every muscle tensed with the effort to remain where he was. After a moment, his mouth twitched in a devilish smirk. “But sometimes I forget.”

The implication of what he said sank into her mind, and it was precisely at moments like these she wished her mind could maintain its sharpness when met with Lucius’ roguish charm. Instead she was left with a brain full of cotton candy and three or four words, one of which being: “’Kay.”


	22. Paris

Hermione couldn’t breathe. The weight of another person was pressing on her chest. A tendril of dark hair fell onto her cheek as a livid, contorted face roared directly into hers. It was the only thing she could see.

“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, _tell the truth!_ ”

Pain unlike anything Hermione had ever experienced erupted over every cell of her body. It felt like she was being ripped apart from the inside.

“What else did you take?” hissed her tormentor. “What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

She was torn between a terrible, trembling fear of death, and the wish that it would come before the next wave of agony.

“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! _CRUCIO!_ ”

Hermione awoke, gasping, and turned on the light.

She cast her eyes frantically around the room, taking in every detail of it, so that she could convince herself of where – and when – she was. It had been a long time since she’d had to bring herself down from that nightmare, but she remembered how. “She’s gone,” she whispered aloud on an exhale, affirming it to herself. “She’s dead.”

After maybe thirty seconds of that, she took a long, steady breath, and blew it out slowly. She was no longer panicked, but still felt ill at ease. Before, when she’d had that dream, she would calm herself back to sleep by thinking of the people who cared for her – the people who would come to her aid if she were ever in danger again. It sounded silly, she was fully aware of that, but it worked for her. _Ginny, Harry, Mum, Dad, the Weasleys._ Tonight, however, none of those names comforted her. She felt rather disconnected from them all currently, each for a different reason.

Without much warning, she was struck by a peculiar impulse. Knowing that she would undoubtedly overthink it, she instead chose not to think about it at all and simply follow through with it.

Her heart nervously thumped against her ribs as she padded barefoot through the carpeted halls, each step bringing her closer to her husband-to-be; the person who, by any modern definition, ought to appear somewhere on her list of people who cared about her.

She hesitated for a moment when she reached his door. _Don’t chicken out, Granger._ She knocked.

It was less than half a minute before it opened, revealing a bleary-eyed Lucius in gray silk pajamas. The sight of her took him aback, which served to rouse him to alertness. “Hermione,” he greeted her, his voice a little hoarse from sleep. “Is everything alright?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered, standing aside. She walked into the room but kept her back to him. He closed the door behind her. “What’s the matter?”

“I had a dream,” she blurted out before she had a chance to second-guess herself. “About Bellatrix Lestrange.”

The air was heavy as comprehension descended upon him. “You mean…” He didn’t need to finish, and she didn’t need to confirm. “Are you alright?”

She nodded a little too vigorously, still facing away from him. “I’m fine,” she said, not too convincingly. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had this dream before, it’s just been… years.”

He thought for several moments. “It makes sense,” he began gently, “that this place would stir those memories. It does seem curious, though, that there would be such a delay. Do you know why—”

“I know why,” Hermione answered immediately. “I know exactly why.”

Lucius stayed silent, waiting.

“I’d never been alone in my entire life, before that moment,” Hermione softly intoned. “Not in that sense. I’d always known I could take care of myself, but if I couldn’t, someone would come for me. My parents, my friends – _someone._ That night…” She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to take herself back to that moment enough to explain it to him but not enough to feel the fear again. It was an effort; she turned around and sat on the edge of his bed. “It was like she and I existed in our own sphere. You and Draco and everyone else, you were on the outside looking in, not really there. None of you had the slightest interest in stopping her, and no one who wanted to stop her could reach me. I was truly, utterly, _alone._ And I had no idea when – or if – or _how_ – it would end.”

Lucius only looked at her, pained by her recollection of his role in her torture, and more so by the truth of it.

“Tonight, I felt alone again; that’s what triggered the dream,” Hermione explained. “I’ve closed off much of my life to my parents, out of what I deemed necessity; Harry and Ginny have shut the door on me, at least for now; and even though you and I are getting somewhere, we’re not… we’re not…” She couldn’t find the words to describe what they were or weren’t, so she gave up and simply said, “I feel like I have no one.”

He did not speak for several moments, sorting through and identifying any ancillary issues that might keep them from untangling the most significant one. Finally, he stepped over to his bed and sat down next to her. “Do you still blame me for it, Hermione?”

She kept facing forward, suddenly rigid as she considered the question. “I don’t know,” she eventually answered, sounding frustrated and lost. “You’re not who you were; I believe that.” Then, sighing deeply, she amended: “I’m trying to believe that.”

Slowly, tentatively, he reached out for her hand, and she let him take it. “I know a part of you does believe that,” he murmured, caressing her palm with his thumb, “or else you wouldn’t be here.”

She looked at him then, allowing him access to her unguarded eyes.

“I know we’re not…” He let the sentence trail off as she had. “I know you haven’t yet grown to trust me. But I am here, nonetheless. You are under my protection now. And if anyone ever dared try to hurt you…” His entire face steeled over at the thought of it, and he took a moment to come back to himself before finishing. “They’d never regret anything so much as that decision.”

Hermione studied him for a long moment, the beginning of a smile ghosting over her face, before the eye contact was getting too intense for her and she broke their gaze. “I guess you did slam your own son against a wall for me today,” she observed, half-jokingly.

“He had it coming,” he stonily replied.

Silence stretched between them.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

She looked at him and nodded.

“Shall I walk you back to your room now?”

She nodded again.

He stood then, her hand still in his, and helped her to her feet. They walked silently hand-in-hand to her room, and Hermione experienced the fleeting thought that she had made the right decision in coming to him.

When they reached her door, he released her hand and she turned to face him. He made no move to kiss her, or touch her in any way, but merely stood in place before her, waiting, gazing at her with mild concern.

She recognized the invitation: _Take what you need from me, and offer me nothing you don’t want to give._ Without a thought, she walked into his arms and laid her head against his chest.

His arms came about her as though by reflex, and there was a moment during which he seemed to be processing what had happened. But then he intentionally tightened them, encircling her soundly, and her lungs filled with the first full, easy breath she’d taken in months.

 

Hermione woke, dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast without delay. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the worry that the unplanned intimacy between her and Lucius the night before would prompt an unconscious pulling away, from one or both of them, and she was anxious to find out if her concerns held water.

“Good morning,” Lucius greeted her as she entered the room.

“Morning,” she replied, taking a seat to his right.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, somehow managing to study her face without making her feel probed.

She took a beat to consider before responding. “Fine,” she said, meeting his eyes and smiling. “Just fine.”

He returned her smile. “I’m glad.”

She filled her plate, poured her coffee, and took the newspaper he had finished reading from the space between them.

“Madame Renaud sent word this morning,” Lucius gently informed her, taking a thorough pause before continuing. “She has invited us to see her on Saturday.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “This Saturday,” she replied, and blinked at his affirming nod. “I thought it took weeks to get an appointment.”

“Typically, yes,” he confirmed. “It appears she has a rare opening in her schedule.”

Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing this news.

“We can wait, if you’d prefer,” he assured her. “Her next available appointment is just after Christmas; that should still grant her enough time to complete your gown.”

She looked off to the side for a moment. “Actually,” she began, sounding somewhat surprised at herself, “I think I’d like to go to Paris this weekend.”

Lucius eyed her closely. “You would?” he asked, sounding tentatively hopeful.

She met his gaze, hesitating a moment before replying. “Would you still be willing to accompany me?”

A smile touched his lips, so subtle as to nearly be missed, but she detected its warmth. “It would be my pleasure,” he answered.

A wave of heat rushed to her cheeks, and she looked down at her plate.

“You’re blushing,” he informed her, amusement coloring his tone.

“ _I know it_ ,” she shot back, jokingly cross, as she shook open her newspaper and held it up to hide her face.

He chuckled then, and Hermione was overtaken by a smile that reached her eyes, which peered at him over the top of the _Daily Prophet._

 

In the intervening days, Hermione picked up stacks upon stacks of wedding and fashion magazines to prepare for her meeting with the expert seamstress. To Lucius’ minor annoyance, she refused to share any of her findings with him, electing only to tell him that she was leaning towards something “conservative.” Not only was this more her style than the slightly revealing, even risqué gowns, but she also felt it would be better suited to the wedding of the Malfoy patriarch.

In what felt like no time at all, the time had come for them to depart. She came down the stairs to meet Lucius, a small weekend bag in hand, and found him waiting for her by the door in a Muggle suit. Perhaps in a subconscious attempt to keep from turning into a puddle every time she was in his presence, she had managed to forget how fantastic he looked in one. Now she had to grip the banister as she completed her journey down the stairs, so that gravity and her wobbling knees couldn’t conspire to send her toppling down the last of them.

“Ready?” he said with a smile when she reached him.

She wanted to say “Yeah,” but was afraid it would come out “Hyungghh,” so she simply nodded.

“Take my arm,” he said, and they Disapparated from the foyer of Malfoy Manor and appeared in a very large, very posh, hotel suite.

“Wow,” Hermione gasped, breathing through the discomfort in her abdomen. “This is… wow.”

He nodded in agreement. “I always stay here when I come to Paris,” he informed her. “Of course, this time, I requested a suite with a second bedroom.” He held out his hand, and her eyes followed his gesture to a small but lavishly furnished bedroom through a set of French doors.

She walked up three carpeted steps to get to it, placed her bag on the floor, and threw herself into the pile of eight pillows.

“Oh,” she sighed audibly.

“Indeed?” he called from the living area.

“It feels like a nest made out of clouds!” she called back, swaddling herself in the comforter.

“Do you like it better than your bed at the manor?” he inquired.

“I like my bed just fine,” she answered him, “but this… oh, my.”

He walked up to her doors, saw her wrapped up so that only her face was visible, and his lips spread into an amused grin. “I’ll have it replaced with one just like this before we get back.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” she replied as she emerged from her cocoon, her hair somewhat affected by her dive into the bed. “My bed is perfectly fine, really. Besides, if you’re going to upgrade a bed for my benefit, shouldn’t it be the one we’ll be sharing?”

He gave the barest smirk. “My bed has already been upgraded almost to my liking.”

She blinked. “Almost?”

He glanced down at his watch. “We should go,” he said. “We don’t want to be late.”

Madame Renaud apparently entertained Wizard and Muggle clients alike, because her shop was in Muggle Paris and they had to take non-magical transport to get there. They walked down into the lobby where Lucius asked the doorman in perfect French to hail them a taxi, and Hermione spent the twenty-minute ride gazing out the windows at the city. She had been to Paris before, but circumstances can alter the way one views the same sights, and she had certainly never been under these circumstances before.

Not so long ago, she had despaired of her situation: twenty-two years old, legally compelled by her government to accept the first Pureblood proposal she received, and only likely to receive two, neither of which would grant her a happy marriage. Now she had accepted a third, and most unexpected, proposal; and it had taken a most unexpected turn.

She liked him. She liked him rather a lot. In fact, her feelings could almost be described as a crush. What had started as simple companionship had evolved into something else, something that made her stomach flutter and her thoughts lose their focus. Then there was that heat that sometimes began to crackle between them. He kept a carefully cool exterior, but he had been giving her glimpses of what resided beneath it, and she found herself less and less apt to turn away from them. And on top of all that, he was beginning to feel like someone she could depend on.

So now, even though the mechanisms that brought her to this point were still abhorrent to her, she couldn’t help but view her situation with a certain level of hopefulness; and as a result, the most romantic city in the world seemed to have something in store for her.

The taxi pulled up outside an old but well-kept storefront in a quaint part of the city. Lucius opened his door and stepped out, then held out his hand for Hermione. She scooted across the seat, took his hand, and joined him on the curb.

The instant they stepped inside, Madame Renaud swept into the entry from her adjoining office and held her arms out in warm greeting. “Ah, Monsieur Malfoy!” she cried with genuine enthusiasm. “It has been so long!” They kissed each cheek.

“Too long,” Lucius agreed, before presenting Hermione. “This is my fiancée, Miss Hermione Granger.”

“Hello,” Hermione greeted her with a smile.

The older lady sighed as she looked at her. “Ah, monsieur, _elle est magnifique! Bonjour_ , my darling,” she said, and gave Hermione a kiss on each cheek as well. She stood back and observed the young woman with a few clicks of her tongue. “Such skin, such eyes! Oh, you will be a dream to dress, _ma fille._ ”

“Thank you,” Hermione managed to utter, her cheeks burning.

“ _Oui, oui_ ,” she murmured to herself, still studying her subject. Then, suddenly, she clapped her hands together. “Well, it was very nice to see you, Monsieur Malfoy, _au revoir_ ,” she said, shooing him with a wave of her manicured hands.

He looked over her shoulder at Hermione and shrugged, smiling, as Madame Renaud ushered him out of her shop. “I’ll be back for you in an hour,” he called as he reached the door.

“Two,” the seamstress corrected. “Goodbye!” And she shut the doors on him.

Hermione waved at him apologetically through the window before Madame Renaud locked the doors and closed all the drapes with a flick of her wand. She had to admit, she was impressed with the woman’s commitment to secrecy.

“Now, my dear,” she began with a clap of her hands as she returned to the sitting area and placed herself in the chair opposite Hermione. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Hermione blinked. “Oh,” she said, taken aback. She had assumed they would talk about her tastes in fashion, what was currently _en vogue_ , and what kind of wedding she and Lucius were having. She wasn’t prepared to talk about herself. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Anything,” the dressmaker replied casually, summoning a sketchpad and a pencil. “What you like to do, where you like to go, your friends, your career, your relationship with Monsieur Malfoy… Anything, _ma chère_ , just talk.”

“Alright,” Hermione said, thinking. “Well, I was born in London…”

For the next hour, she told Madame Renaud all about herself: her straight-laced, bookish childhood; her role as ‘the responsible one’ among her friends; her need to unravel and understand _everything_ ; her less than thrilling romantic history; her aspirations in the areas of law and justice. All the while, Madame Renaud listened intently, studying Hermione’s face, and sketched.

“And what about Monsieur Malfoy?” she asked when the younger witch had stopped speaking.

Hermione smiled nervously and considered for a moment. “To be honest, I don’t know what I can tell you. I assume you know about the law that was passed – the marriage law.” When her companion nodded, she continued. “Well, he requested me. It came as a complete shock. I actually thought I was going to have to marry his son. Before that, we’d been thrown together sort of by accident a few times, and then we spent some time together intentionally, but I had no idea he was thinking of…” she trailed off. “Anyway, we’ve had our struggles navigating these new, strange circumstances, but lately we’ve been making progress. We flirt a lot more, for example,” she said with a laugh, “and actually… we had our first real kiss just the other day.”

“Ah,” the older woman sighed knowingly. “And?” she prompted.

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. “It was… something.”

They both laughed.

“There’s so much more to him than I ever realized,” she softly observed. “And he makes me feel like there might be more to _me_ than I’ve ever realized.”

Madame Renaud nodded in understanding, the wheels in her head spinning. “A few minutes, my dear,” she said, and bent her head down over her pad.

As Hermione listened to the soft scratching of pencil on paper, she couldn’t decide whether she was more anxious to see the finished sketch or to see Lucius again.

The seamstress murmured something in French into the tip of her pencil and began lightly tapping it in various places; she did this quickly, but with an air of knowing precisely where she wanted each one to land.

Finally, she held it up in front of her face and smiled. “There,” she said, and handed it to Hermione, dragging her chair over so they were sitting side-by-side.

Hermione was stunned. She had never seen such a lifelike sketch; it was like the gown actually existed in miniature on the paper. She could see the sheen of the silk, the sheerness of the sleeves, and she now saw that the _taps_ of Madam Renaud’s pencil had dropped tiny, glittering gems throughout the gown. In addition to its realism, it was completely, painfully beautiful.

“What do you think?” the dressmaker asked, though the grin on her face belied the fact that she had correctly read her client’s reaction.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief and tried to remember how to speak. “It’s incredible,” she finally uttered. “It’s absolutely _incredible_. I mean, I don’t spend a lot of time looking at wedding gowns, but I’ve never seen anything like this. _Ever_.”

“There never has been anything like this,” Madam Renaud confirmed, her voice affected by fondness for the younger woman. “I designed it especially for you.”

Hermione had only been thinking about the gown itself, but now that she envisioned herself in it, she began to tear up. “I want it _now!_ ” she whined helplessly. “I want it in my hands _now_ , I want it on my body _now!_ ” The two women laughed, and Hermione leaned over and hugged Madame Renaud tightly. “Thank you so much,” she said, her voice strained. When they broke apart, she looked down at the sketch again. “What are you going to use for these?” she asked, pointing at the sparkles.

“Crushed diamonds,” the seamstress answered easily.

“Holy— _wow_ ,” Hermione stammered. Then, after a pause, she wondered aloud, “What on earth am I going to do about shoes? What kind of shoes can you possibly wear with something like this?”

Without a word, Madame Renaud took back the pad of paper and began a new sketch.

 

When Lucius came to collect Hermione, she was positively alight with praise for Madame Renaud’s vision and talent, but refused to share any details of her design. When he asked why, she replied plainly, “The highest compliment you’ve ever paid me is that I was ‘stunning.’ How can I possibly stun you if you know what to expect?”

They traveled around the city for the remainder of the afternoon, each taking the other to some of their favorite places, had dinner, and returned to the hotel around nine o’clock. The moment they arrived, Hermione sighed in relief. “That,” she began, kicking off her shoes, “was a fantastic day. But I’m glad to be here now.”

“Oh?” Lucius said, taking off his jacket and carefully hanging it up in the closet. “Why is that?”

“I love being out, and having a full day,” Hermione explained, “but I love being in and relaxing equally. I especially love the latter after experiencing the former.”

“Mmm,” he acknowledged. “Are you ready to retire?”

“No,” she answered quickly, “are you?”

“No,” he agreed. “What shall we do?”

Hermione looked around the room until her eyes landed on a chessboard set up at the dining table. She looked back at him with raised eyebrows. “Up for a game?” she asked, inclining her head in the board’s direction.

He raised his own eyebrows in response. “Are _you_?” he returned with a coy smile. “I must warn you, I’m quite good.”

“You don’t scare me,” she told him levelly, but her eyes sparkled mischievously as she said it.

He studied her for a moment, his smile warming somehow, and said, “Very well. Would you care for some wine?”

“Trying to dull my senses?” she teased. Then, after a beat, “Yes, I’d like some wine.”

He poured their glasses, she turned on the radio, and they met at the table.

They played in silence, apart from the occasional remark on the quality of the wine or the song that was playing, carefully considering each move. It continued in this vein for nearly an hour, during which time each of them made roughly equal assaults on the other, resulting in roughly equal losses by both.

Lucius made a move on Hermione’s queen with his knight. Without even pausing, Hermione moved her bishop across the board in direct assault to Lucius’ king, leaving him no way out. She casually placed her chin in her hand and asked, feigning innocence, “Is that checkmate?”

His eyes darted back and forth between the square her bishop occupied and where it had been resting a moment before. “How did you do that?”

His open bewilderment sent her into a fit of unbridled amusement, her laugh ringing out and filling the room.

He began to smile, but his brows furrowed as he continued to study the board; his face was a display of admiration and consternation at war with one another. “Let’s play again,” he suggested, already arranging their pieces in his eagerness to redeem himself.

Hermione was perfectly willing to engage in a rematch, but she turned her head towards the radio as a new song began. “Oh, after this song,” she said, bouncing over to turn up the volume. “I _love_ this song.” She listened to the introduction, slowly tapping her foot to the beat, and began to hum along when the artist started to sing.

Lucius watched her do so for a moment, and then rose from his chair, walked over to her, and held out his hand.

She took it; he led her into an open area of the floor, effortlessly pulled her into position, and began stepping gently side to side, leading her into a slow and easy dance.

“I’ve never heard it in French before,” she commented. “I don’t speak it fluently, but from what I’m catching, it sounds like the words are different from the English version.”

“Hmm,” he acknowledged. “Well, the words may not be exact, but perhaps I can give you the thrust of it.” He listened to a line or two, and then began translating for her.

“I have so many memories… this memory I take from you… If life mistakenly divides us, I’ll take it from my drawer…”

Hermione leaned into him as she listened to his voice thrumming out the words, and vaguely had the thought that she could listen to him do so all night.

“I dream with my eyes open, it does me good… I don’t look back… I wish tomorrow would come quickly…”

She smiled, and wasn’t sure why.

“A glass of sherry, my love when I feel sad… All the days are the same to me now… I miss you terribly.”

“That’s lovely,” she murmured.

“Very different from the English version?” he asked.

“The overall theme is similar,” she replied, pulling back enough to look him in the eye, “but yes, it’s different.”

When she finished her sentence, she noticed the way he was looking at her. It stopped her speech and locked her gaze with his. The silence also allowed her focus to land on their bodies, swaying seamlessly together, and she realized she had never paid attention to the way he felt against her any of the times they had danced, or hugged, or anything before.

Her hand rested on his chest, and he held it loosely in his own; he slowly drew it up around his neck, pulling her even closer to him as he did so, and caressed the length of her arm, all the way down her side, until it rested firmly at the small of her back.

To Hermione’s alarm, her nipples had a rather pronounced response to this, and she wondered if he could feel them with their chests pressed as tightly together as they were.

His face had inched closer to hers. She craned her neck to close the distance that remained.

Their lips met, and Hermione’s thoughts completely quieted, something that never, ever happened. They kissed slowly, thoroughly, and as before, they carried on for several minutes with no cognizance of the time that passed. The song ended, and a new one began, and they didn’t notice.

Finally, they broke apart, and Hermione realized they had stopped dancing. They remained close enough to feel each other’s breath, but didn’t move or speak.

“Perhaps we should go to bed,” he suggested, his voice coming out low and throaty.

Hermione froze.

“Our own beds, I mean,” he hastened to clarify. “Forgive me.”

She shook her head. “Nothing to forgive,” she told him, practically in a whisper. “I don’t blame you for—that is, I wouldn’t… I…” She laughed at herself. “I can’t speak.”

He smiled, but it was quick to leave him.

She took his gaze again. “It’s not that I don’t want… it’s just…”

“I know,” he softly assured her. “I know.” He placed a chaste but affectionate kiss on the tip of her nose and said, “Let me take you to your door.”

He did, and perhaps for fear of getting carried away, they did not kiss again; instead, they held each other in a close embrace for several moments before reluctantly separating and finding their own beds.


	23. For All Our Differences

**Author's note: A few of you left comments that you couldn't find the new chapter on Inkitt! I'm sorry about that. The link I provided took me straight to it, so I'm not sure what happened, but I'll try to find a better way to lead you there for chapter 24.**

**Here's the real chapter 23 - sorry for the inconvenience.**

 

* * *

 

Hermione awoke with such a strong sense of Lucius’ presence that she thought for half a second he was in the room with her. A quick glance around told her he wasn’t, but she still felt surrounded by his aura somehow, and it put her in a state of hazy, dreamlike contentment. She rolled over onto her belly, stretching, and in so doing she unintentionally pressed her hips into the mattress. The resulting sensation sent her eyebrows up in surprise. She never woke up aroused; in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she was turned on for no reason. She reached a hand down and experimentally swiped a finger over herself through her panties.

 _Yep,_ she thought, _definitely turned on._

She had a moment of indecision about how to proceed. This was not something she did regularly – only as frequently as she found herself with a fire in her knickers, which was rare enough. She glanced at the clock; it was seven-thirty. Lucius might still be sleeping, then, though he could just as easily be awake. She listened carefully for several beats but heard no movement from outside her door or elsewhere in the suite.

Feeling safe in the silence, she began softly stroking herself.

A series of images flashed through her mind. Lucius standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her in that painfully flattering grey suit. His face, lit by the fire in the study, his eyes locked on hers, his mouth spreading into a smile. Him standing in the doorway to his bedroom, his bed looming behind him, the sheets disheveled. Without her permission, her mind began imagining things that had not yet happened. The two of them in his bed, worsening the state of his sheets. Their bare chests pressed together. His hand touching her instead of her own. 

The very beginning of her cry escaped her mouth before she had buried her face in the pillow.

 

When Hermione emerged some twenty minutes later, she was showered, dressed, and ready for a day of sightseeing; Lucius, however, appeared agitated as he sat at the small table eating his breakfast.

“What’s the matter?” she asked when she noticed his expression. Instead of taking her chair opposite him, she came directly to his side and leaned against the table.

He sighed deeply. “We’ll have to cut our holiday short.”

“Oh,” she replied, her heart sinking a bit. “Why?”

“Urgent matters that require my presence in England,” he answered. “I’m beginning to regret putting Cornelius in the position of being re-elected; he demands my assistance every other day, it seems.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose an entire inch. “ _You_ put him back in office,” she said.

“I... maneuvered him,” Lucius corrected. “I take it he didn’t have your vote,” he observed with a half-smile.

“No,” Hermione acknowledged freely.

“Well,” he responded with a shrug, “perhaps next time I’ll maneuver the candidate of _your_ choice. I chose poorly.”

“Oh, my,” Hermione heaved an exaggerated sigh. “An enormous mansion, a custom-made wedding gown, weekend trips to Paris, _and_ a hand-selected candidate for Minister! I must be the luckiest girl alive. It’s too bad you’re hideous,” she teased. When he had finished laughing, she said, “We have to leave today, then?" 

“I’m sorry,” he told her, placing a hand on top of hers. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“No need,” she replied with a good-natured smile. “We’ll be back, I’m sure.”

“I’ll see to it,” he promised.

After they finished breakfast, they each retrieved their suitcase, met in the sitting room, and Disapparated, appearing on the lane that led to Malfoy Manor. Lucius sent their bags zooming along the path ahead of them, and they began to walk.

Perhaps a minute into their sojourn, she ventured to ask, “What is it that requires your presence in England?”

“Politics,” he answered sardonically. “Cornelius has an agenda, of course - every politician does - and while he does possess a few qualities which are useful in achieving his aims, he lacks subtlety, and at times he struggles to select the best strategy.” 

“Subtlety and strategy,” Hermione repeated, “two areas in which you excel. But surely you getting him elected is enough to discharge you from any future duties.”

“Indeed, yes,” he confirmed, “Cornelius is largely in my debt, and I prefer to keep it that way. My advice and counsel seem a small price to pay in exchange for keeping the scales tipped in my favor.”

“Is that why you wanted him in particular?” Hermione inquired. “You knew he’d need you, and his debt to you would continue to grow?”

“Not entirely,” Lucius replied. “I thought his being back in office would help ease the transition into the new way of things for many of my peers. Familiarity, you see. And, really, until the circumstances which forced him to resign, he was a fairly decent Minister. 

“Well, he didn’t burn the Ministry to the ground, at any rate,” Hermione muttered.

Lucius smirked. “Do you really think so meanly of him?”

She thought for a moment. “I think you and I have different criteria. I’d prefer a leader; you’d prefer someone who is easily led.”

“Touché,” he granted her. “Ambition and cunning, and all that. I like to climb the ladder - and if I can’t make it to the top, I like to hold sway over the person who does.”

“Hmm,” she acknowledged. “Understandable, if a little off-putting.”

“Off-putting?”

“The person you describe doesn’t sound trustworthy.”

He thought for a moment. “I suppose you’d have to ask yourself if the ends justify the means.”

“That depends on the ends,” she qualified, “and the means.”

“Well,” Lucius began, “the means in this case were my positioning Cornelius in such a way as to seem the most fitting, qualified candidate for Minister. As for the ends, I had nothing particular in mind when I arranged the means, but in the time since, nothing I have wrought has been to anyone’s detriment - not that I know of, at least, and I genuinely hope that is the case.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Would it set your mind at ease to know that, while the means may have been somewhat less than honest, the ends achieved would always be for good?”

“That depends on the person’s definition of ‘good.’”

He laughed, although it was clear that he was experiencing a small amount of frustration. “I never would have imagined you could be so deft at not answering a question.”

She stopped on the path, causing him to do the same. “What exactly is the question?” she asked, her tone making it clear that she wished to get to the heart of the matter.

He looked in her eyes for a long moment, trying to decide how brave he felt like being. “Let’s say the means were putting the Minister in my debt, and the ends were getting engaged to you. What then?”

Hermione softened. “In that case, I would have nothing bad to say about either,” she told him honestly.

Her answer had made him happy; the muscles in his face did not noticeably rearrange themselves, but his eyes communicated all.

She began walking again, and he joined her. “If you had drafted that law, though,” she said, “with the view of claiming me through it, that would be another story. You didn’t, did you?” she suddenly inquired, shooting her gaze to him.

“No,” he immediately responded with a chuckle. “That was completely Cornelius’ invention. A harebrained scheme, to be sure. Although…” His voice grew soft, and he reached for her hand, taking it tenderly in his. “It appears at least _some_ good came of it.”

She smiled. “You know… you’d think that my favorite part of Paris would be designing my wedding gown, or eating at a fine French restaurant, or staying in a posh hotel. But, actually, my favorite part was just… talking to you. Spending time with you, just like we do here,” she said, gesturing to the manor, which was now in view. She turned her head towards him and caught his gaze. “Strange,” she murmured, studying his face. “I never would have picked you out as someone I’d enjoy talking to.”

He nodded. “For all our differences, we are a bit alike. Keen minds; an understanding of human nature; the ability to recognize an opportunity.”

Unexpectedly, she grinned. “Do you remember the last time we walked down this road together?” she asked through a laugh. “Could you have imagined then that the next time we walked down it, it would be like this?” She punctuated the question by squeezing his hand.

He blinked slowly before answering. “That was the first time I imagined it, actually.”

Hermione was astonished. “What?” she gasped.

“It surprised me,” he began to explain, “how nice it felt to have you walk beside me. At first, I admit, I dismissed it out of hand. ‘Don’t be silly, Malfoy.’ But then when you Apparated into my garden…” They both laughed. “I thought perhaps I should pursue the idea, and see if there was anything to it. Particularly given the bleakness of your other prospects.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history,” she finished for him.

Fern greeted them at the door, took their coats, and handed Lucius a stack of letters.

He sifted through them, looking at the front of each one. He handed the fourth one to Hermione.

Recognizing Harry’s untidy scrawl, she hastily ripped it open.  
  


_Ginny had the baby!_

_She’s asking for you._

  
She looked up at Lucius, her mouth hanging open. “Ginny had the baby,” she breathed. “She had the baby.”

“How wonderful!” he said gently.

“She wants to see me.”

“Go,” he advised her. “Go at once.” 

She nodded, shifting her weight apprehensively. She was dying to see her friends, and their baby, but given how her and Ginny’s last meeting had gone, she felt a healthy amount of anxiety at the idea of their meeting again. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she told him, “but I’ll make sure I’m back for dinner.”

He smiled encouragingly. “I’ll see you then.”

 

Hermione appeared on the front step of the Potters’ home. She granted herself only a moment to gather her courage before she knocked. Shortly thereafter, the door opened to reveal a somewhat dazed-looking Harry. Apparently, he was still processing the fact that he was now a father. At the sight of Hermione, though, he smiled. “Hey,” he greeted her.

“Hey,” she said back. “Is now a good time?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, standing aside. “Come in.” She stepped past him, and he shut the door. “She’s in there,” he told her, pointing.

Hermione walked timidly into the living room, where Ginny was seated on the couch holding a sleeping James.

“Hi,” Ginny whispered, smiling.

“Hi,” Hermione returned, gingerly sitting down some eighteen inches away from her friend on the sofa. She looked down at the baby and sighed. “Oh, Ginny,” she said, drinking in the sight of her son. “He’s beautiful.” Just then he stirred, waving a fist in the air and making a small sound. Hermione clasped her hands to her mouth to quiet the elated squeak she made.

After a beat, Ginny – always one to face an issue head-on – said, “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

“Oh,” Hermione responded, waving a hand dismissively, “don’t be. I had it coming.”

“No,” Ginny argued gently, “you didn’t. I should have asked for your version of events, or Harry’s, before I decided to believe Draco fucking Mal—” She broke off suddenly. “I’m going to have to stop using that word,” she said with a chuckle.

“You’ve still got a couple years before he learns to speak,” Hermione joked.

“Yeah. Anyway, I wish one of you had told me, but I can understand why you didn’t. I really just want to put it behind us.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed fervently. “Absolutely. Far, far behind us.” Then, after a hesitation, she said, “So… we’re still friends?”

“Of course we are,” Ginny assured her. “In fact, Harry and I were hoping you’d be James’ godmother.”

Hermione’s eyes immediately welled up. She brought her hands to her chest, as though to keep her heart from bursting out of it. “Yeah,” she whispered through her tears, “of course I will.”

James stirred again, this time beginning to fuss. “I think he’s hungry again,” Ginny said. “I swear, all he does is sleep and eat.”

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Hermione said, getting up from the couch. “Maybe I could come round for tea sometime,” she carefully posited. 

“Anytime,” Ginny corrected her with a smile. “No invitation required.”

Hermione beamed. “Okay.” She walked towards the door and leaned slightly in Harry’s direction without thinking, then turned and looked at Ginny. “Can I—” she started, gesturing at the space between them.

“Yes,” Ginny answered in a half-exasperated, half-joking tone.

Hermione grinned in relief and gave Harry a tight hug. “Congratulations, Harry.”

“Thanks,” he said. “See you soon.”

A moment later, she stood on her friends’ front step again and took a breath of the cold, crisp air. Out of nowhere, she heard Lucius’ voice from weeks before, the day that she and Ginny’s friendship had fractured. _Everything will be alright,_ he had said. And for the first time since the marriage law had been passed, Hermione genuinely felt that it would be.


	24. Stuck

The next day began uneventfully. Draco was not at breakfast, so Hermione and Lucius ate together in peace; he did some work in his office, and she did further research on the history of wizard-elf relations, hoping to find either some precedent for what she hoped to accomplish or some concrete evidence that elves were self-sufficient before Wizarding interference. They reunited for tea, and then Lucius informed her that he had agreed to accompany the Minister to dinner with some potential financiers. He also delivered the news that Draco would be vacating the manor sometime that evening, and Hermione did not attempt to hide her delight, knowing that were she to try, she would not succeed.

After she ate dinner, using Lucius’ absence as an opportunity to converse with Fern, Hermione returned to the study for more reading, though this time she selected a book of her fiancé’s recommendation, a work of classic literature she was surprised to learn she had never heard of. She was perhaps two chapters in when the sound of Draco’s footsteps drew her attention, and a moment later he passed by the door to the study, slowing to a pause when he saw her. He eyed her appraisingly, though his gaze was, blissfully, lacking any evidence of impure thoughts. Instead, he appeared to be deciding whether or not to speak to her. “The remodel is finished,” he told her, his ever-present arrogance making even that simple statement almost unbearably irritating. “I’m going back to my flat now.” 

Hermione adopted an over-the-top expression of mock disappointment and double-dipped her voice in the same. “Okay,” she said, then dismissed him with a harsh “ _Bye!_ ” and returned to her book. 

A single beat passed, and then he spoke again. “What’s your problem?” he asked, having the nerve to actually sound affronted. 

Her jaw dropped and her gaze returned to him out of sheer shock. “My _problem?_ ” she repeated, over-enunciating the word in her disbelief. 

“Yeah,” he maintained, stepping into the study. “I get that we had our issues in school, but we were _kids,_ ” he said. “Since then I haven’t done anything but try to pursue you, to make you my _wife._ ” He said it as though she should have been grateful for his attention. 

Hermione was becoming so angry she couldn’t stay seated. Without deciding to, she slowly stood from her chair, her book slipping from her lap onto the cushion. “ _Pursue_ me?” she repeated him again, her voice surprisingly quiet given how loud her emotions were. “ _Pursue me?_ If that’s your idea of _pursuing_ a girl, Malfoy, it’s no wonder you’re still single.” 

“Oh, come off it,” he scoffed. “I may have come on a little strong, but it was nothing to get your knickers in a wad over. You know,” he accused, “if you had given in, you would have been glad you did.” 

“You,” she began, her voice soft and yet vibrating with an energy that threatened an imminent explosion, “have got… to be… _kidding me._ ” She had taken a few slow, threatening steps toward him. “I’ll say it slowly, so the words have time to hammer through your thick fucking skull and worm their way into your teeny, tiny brain: I _never_ wanted you to touch me; I _never_ wanted to be your wife; and _never,_ at any point in the ten years I’ve known you, have I ever - _ever_ \- wanted to sleep with you. Why is it so difficult for you to understand,” she continued, still advancing on him, “that someone might not want you? Have you wanted to shag every female you’ve ever seen? Of course you haven’t!” Her voice was rising in volume, and he began to retreat from her wrath. “So why would you expect _every_ female to want to shag _you?_ ” 

He seemed to be taken aback by that question. “Well,” he started, befuddled, “I’m—” 

“You’re what?” she challenged ferociously. “You’re rich? You’re handsome? You’re a _dick,_ Draco Malfoy!” She had now reached the height of her fury, and there could have been no stopping her. “You’ve never treated me as an equal; you’ve barely treated me as a human!” She had now forced his back to the wall. “And you think I want your hands on me?” 

He genuinely appeared as though he had never considered that before. In truth, he most likely hadn’t. 

“And my friends!” she continued, her outrage, if it were possible, growing even more. “Your abuses of me were bad enough, but then you actually _set out_ to hurt me, to get back at me for not wanting you, and in the process you hurt two people who had nothing to do with it. Did you even think about their child?” she demanded. “His family could have been torn apart before he was even born, and you _don’t care._ I--can't-- _fathom_ you!” she shouted in utter exasperation. “It's like nothing matters!” As soon as she said it, it clicked. Understanding began to trickle over her. “That's it, isn't it?” she asked, surprise lowering her voice by several decibels. “You can't let anything matter. If you let anything matter, you have to let everything matter.” 

The color drained from his face. 

She blinked, astounded, and backed away a few steps. “You haven't even begun to deal with what happened to you, have you?” 

“Stop,” he warned her, holding up a hand. 

“Draco,” she persisted. 

“ _STOP!_ ” 

She was struck silent by the pure anguish in his voice. 

He turned away, but his face crumpled before he could completely hide it from her. His hunched shoulders shook gently in between quiet gasps. Hermione was assaulted by a sharp pang of empathy, and then an ugly, hot wave of confusion and bitterness. “Damn it,” she half-spat, half-sighed under her breath. Nothing could ever excuse his actions, but now she had to confront what a devastatingly damaged person he was: not simply a selfish, entitled asshole, but a traumatized young man trying to pretend that nothing had consequences because he couldn’t face the fallout of what he had done, and what had been done to him. 

Her feet propelled her forward again in spite of her desire to maintain distance. When she reached him, she forced herself to place a hand on his trembling shoulder. 

“Damn it,” she whispered again. 

“I’m sorry,” he moaned desperately. “Granger, I’m sorry.” 

She opened her mouth to reply, but her tongue wouldn’t form words. She couldn’t possibly say, “It’s alright,” because it wasn’t. After a long moment, she abandoned any attempt at speech and settled for gently patting his upper back. Part of her detested that she was offering comfort to him, but it was outmatched by the part of her that knew how vital it was that he receive it. 

“Don’t tell my father,” he said, hastily wiping his eyes. 

“I won’t,” she promised woodenly. “But I think you should.” 

He scoffed. “Not in a hundred years.” He straightened, so she dropped her hand. 

“He’s the only one who’ll understand,” she pressed him gently. “He’s made peace with himself, he’s forged ahead with his life. He can help you, and if he knows you’re struggling, he’ll want to.” 

Draco shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he told her, though he neglected to face her. “You think you know him, but you don’t. I’ve lived with him all my life. He doesn’t care.” 

It made Hermione inexplicably sad that Lucius’ own son could perceive a version of him so different than the one she’d come to know. “He’s trying to be better,” she maintained. “Let him try with you.” He didn’t answer. “You need someone to guide you through this, Draco, but it can’t be me. I just…” she trailed off, shaking her head vehemently. “I can’t.” He sniffed very quietly. “I know.” 

At around half past eight, Hermione was slowly pacing back and forth in the study, anxiously awaiting Lucius’ return home and yet completely at a loss as to how she was going to explain his son’s predicament to him in a way that would ensure he understood the gravity of it. The Malfoy men were constantly at odds with one another, it seemed, and while Hermione believed she at least partially understood why, it was something else entirely to wade through years and years of familial issues and discord with the very people entrenched in it. 

She heard the front door swing open and she immediately ceased pacing. It clicked shut, and her heart rate increased by a fair amount. He and Fern exchanged a few words, and his footsteps approached. _I guess I’ll just wing it, then._

He stepped into the study, halted at the sight of her standing (unusual, as she was normally sitting with a book in her hands), and cocked his head slightly to the side. “Hello,” he greeted her as he drew nearer, his expression one of mild amusement. “What are you doing?” 

“You need to talk to Draco,” she blurted out. 

His face darkened. “What has he done?” he demanded, his voice rumbling dangerously. 

“Nothing, nothing!” she hastened to assure him. “It’s not that. He’s…” She thought for a moment about how to describe what she had just discovered. “He’s deeply struggling with what happened during the war.” 

A curtain fell over his eyes; he had a wall built specifically for this topic. “The war was hard on all of us,” he said with finality, as though the matter was closed. He walked past her to the bar to make their usual drinks. 

But Hermione wasn’t going to let it go. “Yes, and the difference is,” she continued, coming over to her chair and sitting on the very edge of it, “you and I and just about everyone else have found a way to soldier on. He hasn’t dealt with _any_ of it.” 

Lucius did not answer her. 

She continued despite this. “He has spent the last five years in epic denial. He hasn’t faced it, hasn’t thought about it. That’s why he still acts like a teenager; he’s retreated to his pre-war frame of mind because he’s not equipped to cope with anything that happened during it. He’s _stuck._ ” 

He placed her glass on the table between them, sat down, and still didn’t speak. 

“Lucius, he needs you,” she insisted. 

“He’s never needed me,” Lucius argued. “He’s always made that perfectly clear.” 

Hermione sighed heavily. “You told me that you spent as much time away from home as possible,” she reminded him, “to escape your unhappy marriage, correct?” 

He stiffened, and she could almost see the defensiveness rise up around him. 

“Hear me out,” she requested before he had a chance to respond. “I’m not faulting you. I’m just saying, that was a choice you made, and it had consequences you couldn’t foresee. He felt abandoned. So he constructed this ‘I don’t need you’ bravado as a method of denying his own feelings and of keeping you at arm’s length. That would have been unfortunate enough on its own, but now he’s drowning and you’re probably the only one who can reach him.” 

Lucius took several deep breaths through his nose, putting forth a great deal of effort to listen to what she said instead of dismissing her theory as wrong simply because he wanted it to be so. His index and middle fingers tapped rapidly on the arm of his chair. “How do you know all this?” he finally asked, his voice light but his words coming out clipped. 

“I understand people,” she said. “Something we have in common, remember? You’d see all this too,” she assured him, “if you weren’t so close to it.” 

His eyes softened by a trace amount; his wall had a crack in it. 

She watched him carefully, trying to pick up a signal from him with her empathy antenna. “You feel rejected by him, too, don’t you?” she asked him tenderly. “He pushed you away, and it hurt. So now you’re both trapped in an endless cycle of preemptively rejecting the other before he has a chance to reject you.” 

His eyes fell away from her. 

Hermione rose from her chair, tentatively approached him, and knelt on the floor by his side. She placed her hand on his, and he cleared his throat. “I know,” she began softly, “this will be really, really hard… but you’re the parent. You have to be the one to break the cycle.” 

He slowly nodded, sighed heavily, and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re right,” he conceded. “I’ll ask him over tomorrow.” 

Hermione pursed her lips. “Or tonight,” she suggested. 

Lucius set his gaze on her, already looking mentally exhausted simply by the _idea_ of having this conversation with his son. “What?” 

“Rip the Band-Aid off,” Hermione said with confidence. 

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “What?” he said again. 

“Get it over and done with,” she clarified. 

“Hermione…” he began. 

“If not now, when?” she asked. 

“Tomorrow,” he answered easily. 

She looked expectantly up at him, blinking. 

He sighed. “Or tonight.” He rose from his chair, penned a quick note, and called for Fern to send it by owl. When he returned to his chair, he practically fell into it. 

Hermione stood from the floor, walked behind him, and began rubbing his shoulders. 

He inhaled deeply at her touch and groaned as she began to work the tension from him. 

“I think he’ll be receptive,” she said. “I discerned rather a lot about his feelings today.” 

“So,” he said, dropping his head into his chest so she could move up to his neck, “the two of you have reconciled?” 

Se pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Nope,” she replied definitively, although her voice was almost comedic in its high pitch. “But,” she clarified, having returned to her normal tone, “we got about as close to it as we can, I think.” 

“Well, that’s something,” he commented drily, taking a large swig of his brandy. 

About an hour later, the front door swung open again, and Hermione experienced a very similar sensation to the last time she had heard it, only this time it was accompanied by a small dose of nausea. She suspected that indifference was the best she could hope for with regards to how she might feel about Draco in the future, but as of this moment, she still felt antipathy. 

A moment later, he strode into the room. “You summoned me?” he addressed his father sardonically. 

Lucius took a breath. “Yes,” he confirmed through an exhale, and stood to meet his son. “There is something I’d like to discuss with you.” 

“Well, what is it?” Draco prompted curtly. “I have plans.” 

Lucius’ jaw tightened, but he kept his cool. When he spoke again, his voice was still as calm as it had been before. “Draco, we’ve never talked about what happened during the war.” 

Draco’s eyes darted to Hermione and remained there, though when he spoke it was to his father. “She shouldn’t have told you.” 

Lucius let a beat pass before replying. “She was trying to help.” 

“Well, she needn’t have bothered,” Draco countered somewhat harshly, only looking at Lucius when he could be certain his face was without expression. “There’s nothing to say, is there?” 

Once again, instead of responding instantly, Lucius took a moment to keep control of his emotions and consider what to say. “There is,” he contradicted. “There is much to say. I could speak volumes on my own experiences, and I was a grown man when I had them. You were only a teenager.” 

“I was man enough for those things to be laid at my feet, wasn’t I?” Draco argued hotly. 

Hermione could see Lucius beginning to get agitated, on the verge of slipping back into his old patterns. “I don’t intend to be condescending--” 

“Must be a natural gift, then,” Draco interjected with venom. 

Hermione watched Lucius carefully and saw him about to snap. “Stop,” she said, before he said something he’d regret. She turned to Draco. “He’s trying to meet you halfway,” she told him quietly, though her tone was forceful. “Throw him a fucking bone, will you?” Then she spoke to the pair of them. “Do you know what’ll happen if you don’t sort this out?” 

The two men remained still and silent, waiting for her answer. 

“Nothing,” she told them with finality, and let them feel the emptiness of that thought for several moments. 

Lucius gazed at his son, his every muscle rigid, as though trying to contain something churning inside him. 

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and looked anywhere but at his father. 

At last, Lucius tried again. “Do you know,” he began slowly, “the moment I knew I had to change?” he asked his son. The awkwardness he felt was apparent in every syllable, but at least he had taken a step. 

Draco’s eyes shifted, landing on the bookcase. He appeared to be reading the titles. “I assume it was when your side lost,” he replied, keeping his voice free of any detectable emotion. 

“Actually, at the time, it appeared as though we had won,” he said. “When we - the Death Eaters - returned to Hogwarts, and we all thought Potter was dead.” 

His son’s eyes shifted to him, brows furrowed in consternation. 

“Your mother and I called you over to us. I held my arm out to you. And you went straight to your mother and walked right past me.” 

Draco’s expression betrayed him; he knew exactly what his father was talking about. 

“I was so relieved to find you alive,” Lucius continued, his eyes involuntarily closing. “I swore then that I would protect you in all the ways that I failed to before. But you wanted nothing to do with me. I don’t blame you for it,” he hurried on. “But I’m a proud man. You rejected me, and I had to save face. I don’t suppose you know what that’s like?” He said the last part as impartially as he could, not wanting to imply either that Draco could not possibly understand, or that he obviously must. 

Draco spent several moments absorbing everything his father had said, but didn’t speak. Drawing as little attention to herself as possible, Hermione stepped lightly out of the room. Just after she had closed the doors to the study, she heard Draco softly say, “Yeah. I know what that’s like.”


End file.
